


Plus One

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Illustrations, M/M, Multi, Party, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: “Good,” Elias says, gathering some papers into a leather folder. Casually, he adds, “And bring a plus one.”“A-- excuse me?”-Jon needs to find a plus one for a party he has to attend.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 87
Kudos: 301
Collections: Holly Poly 2020





	1. Tim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aunt_zelda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration was done by [tsundernova!](https://tsundernova.tumblr.com/) Check their stuff out!

“... and there is of course the office holiday party at the end of the week,” Elias says. They’re nearing the tail end of a meeting between the two of them that has lasted for  _ far too long, _ by Jon’s count. He doesn’t understand why any of this couldn’t have been an email instead, but he bites his tongue. 

“Yes, of course,” Jon says, wondering if beginning to gather his things from where they’ve slowly sprawled out across one side of Elias’ desk would be rude. 

The office holiday party-- yes, of course, it should be happening soon. Time may be a bit of a blur for him, with nothing to really distinguish one work filled day from the other, but he’d have to be blind not to notice all of the tinsel that keeps multiplying everywhere like an invasive species in the building. It’s that time of year again. 

He can’t wait until it’s over. 

“You _ will  _ be coming, won’t you?” Elias prompts him. 

“I’ll see if I can pencil it into my schedule,” he says, trying to at least bite the sarcasm back to being just a light tinge instead of a heavy coating over his words. He hasn’t attended a single one of the holiday parties at this place yet, and he doesn’t see why he should start now. 

“I’m afraid it is mandatory, Jon,” Elias says in a voice that says that while he may pity Jon, he won’t be showing him any mercy either. 

“What? Since when?” 

“Since your promotion to Head Archivist, naturally. You’re a department head now, and that comes with certain obligations.” 

“Such as attending _ parties?”  _ he says with as much incredulous disdain as he can muster. 

“Yes,” Elias says simply. “There’s no need for such a fuss, you just need to make an appearance for an hour or two.” 

He’s about to protest further, but  _ there’s no need for such a fuss _ effectively cuts him off at the knees. Elias sounds like he’s speaking to a  _ child,  _ a sulky teenager who’s refusing to leave their room to go and greet the guests. 

“Fine,” is what he ends up saying instead, feeling suddenly mortified at himself. 

Even if making his attendance of a  _ holiday party _ mandatory still doesn’t make a  _ lick  _ of damned sense. 

“Good,” Elias says, gathering some papers into a leather folder. Casually, he adds, “And bring a plus one.” 

“A--  _ excuse me?”  _

“And wear some nice clothes,” he goes on with pleasant mildness. 

Jon doesn’t need to be  _ told _ to wear some  _ nice clothes _ like he’s a ten year old wearing a food stained sweater on his way to Sunday service. And nevermind that, because Elias just said-- 

“It’s not enough for me to attend, but I have to subject someone else to an evening trapped in a building full of mistletoe and party poppers? You must be joking.” 

“It’s really not that bad, Jon. You’ve never even been to one of these parties before. For all you know, you might _ enjoy _ yourself.” 

He can’t help the rude, disbelieving noise that comes out of him at that. Elias gives him the mild, chiding look that gets sent his way whenever Jon ends up insulting a visiting member of the public or getting into an argument with Rosie. 

With as much dignity as he can muster, Jon takes his leave. 

This is a problem. Elias had cut off any of Jon’s attempts to weasel himself out of going to the party itself with the weak excuse of ‘but I don’t _ want _ to’, and so now he’s thoroughly backed into the corner of actually having to attend. And to dress nice. And to bring a plus one. 

That last part is the problem. He couldn’t very well tell Elias that he doesn’t  _ have _ a plus one, now could he? Not a single friend or family member or even an acquaintance to beg for a favor. His job has been his life for so long that he honestly can’t say that he knows anyone outside of it. What is he supposed to do, call someone up from his uni days after almost half a decade of radio silence? Hire some sort of-- of  _ escort _ to pretend to be his date for the night? 

… No, that would be ridiculous, of course not. He doesn’t know where to even  _ find _ escorts, besides. And on the note of paying someone to go with him-- he doesn’t very much like the idea of soliciting the help of some stranger over the internet. Who knows who he’d end up meeting? What sort of person would answer that sort of request? Not the type of person he’d want knowing his name and face, certainly. 

He pushes his glasses up so he can press the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, his elbows planted on his desk, groaning quietly with annoyance and despair. What an absolute waste of time. He should be working, not wondering how he’s going to manage to find himself a  _ companion _ for the office holiday party, of all things. How idiotic. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d ask if you’d hit the bottle too hard last night,” Tim says with far too much cheerfulness for Jon’s taste. Jon removes his hands, his glasses falling back into place, if perhaps a bit too far down his nose. Tim is standing in the opening of Jon’s office door, holding a file. He hadn’t heard him knocking, or even opening the door. Martin must have left it open when he came to drop off a mug of tea earlier, he realizes with a pang of irritation. 

“Tim,” he says, and then his playful accusation sinks in. He hurries to defend himself. “Just, ah, a bit of a-- a headache, a migraine-- the work, you know--” 

Tim laughs at him. “Okay now I’m really wondering if it  _ is _ a hangover. Did you go and hit up a pub last night, eh? Without me? And Sash? You’re breaking my heart, boss.” 

“It’s a  _ Tuesday, _ Tim,” he says indignantly. His eyes dart towards his phone, but he resists the urge to check and see if it really is Tuesday. He hasn’t been taking weekends off since the promotion, and so the days have sort of been melting into each other for him. It’s not for forever, it’s just for now, just until he finally gets comfortable in his new position, until he feels like he’s gained some sort of handle on it. “I haven’t been drinking. It’s just-- something Elias said during our meeting.” 

“Oh, what’s he done now? Set a daily quota for statements archived? Scheduled a deadline for when we have to get this place to stop looking like a haunted, abandoned library? Ordered you to go to, what, ArchivingCon this year? That’s a thing, I bet.” 

“No. Those were all  _ chilling _ suggestions, but no. I’m just being forced to attend the holiday party this year, despite the fact that whether or not I go has  _ zero _ effect on my performance as Head Archivist.” 

“Oh, wow, finally. I was wondering what would finally get you to go. You won’t listen to any of my begging--” 

“Wheedling,” Jon corrects him. 

“--but you’ll do it if Mister Big Boss Man asks? I see how it is. I see where I stand.” 

“He wasn’t _ asking,” _ Jon grouses. “And he wasn’t asking either when he informed me that I’ll have to bring a plus one as well. It’s  _ completely  _ unreasonable.” 

Tim lights up like one of those damnable Christmas trees at that. 

“You’re going to bring a  _ date?” _ he asks, sounding absolutely delighted by this turn of events. 

“A _ plus one,” _ Jon stresses. “And I  _ have _ to bring them. Whether or not I’ll actually be  _ able _ to do this is less set in stone.” 

“Aw, Jonny,” Tim says, and Jon scrunches up his face disapprovingly. He hasn’t been called that since he was a  _ very _ young boy. “Don’t talk like that! Of course you’ll manage it. You’re prettier than you think, you know. Why, all you have to do is take off your glasses and let your hair down and I bet the masses will be flocking to get a look at you.” 

He scoffs. Let his hair down-- he’d gotten a fresh haircut the very weekend after Elias informed him that he’d been chosen as Gertrude’s replacement, and it’s still short and neat. He’d thought (hoped) that it’d make him look more professional, more fitting for the position. Dressing for the part. 

He sort of misses the feeling of his hair brushing against his ears, his jaw, but that doesn’t matter. It’s just hair. 

“Come on,” Tim says, leaning his hip against Jon’s desk, still grinning but sounding less playful now. “It can’t be that bad, can it? Just hit someone up and beg them for a favor. It’s just one night, and with free snacks and booze, too.” 

Jon wishes that people would stop assuming that he has someone to hit up in the first place. Maybe then the prospect of admitting that no, he doesn’t have anyone he can ask, at all, wouldn’t feel so incredibly unpleasant. It feels like he’s failed at some sort of task, a basic requisite of being a responsible, functional adult, like filling out his taxes and drinking coffee. 

… He doesn’t drink coffee either. 

“I’ve already asked everyone I know,” he makes himself say awkwardly. He’s asked no one, but it might in some technical sort of way count as the truth. “They’re all-- busy. The holiday season, you know. It’s always busy.” 

“Right,” Tim says in an indecipherable tone, looking down at him. Jon resists the urge to squirm uncomfortably in his chair underneath his gaze, until a big, friendly, familiar smile breaks back out across Tim’s face like sunlight breaching the clouds, and he relaxes despite himself. “Hey, you know, _ I _ could be your plus one.” 

“What? That doesn’t-- you were already planning on coming to the party, Tim.” Jon knows that much, even if he’s never been to one of the things before. Tim and Sasha keep trying to convince him to come, cajoling him with untempting promises of eggnog and mistletoe. In his opinion, alcohol and dairy shouldn’t be mixed, and he doesn’t see the appeal of kissing a work acquaintance in a crowded room. 

“Yeah, so? Doesn’t mean I can’t be your date to the thing, right? It totally counts.” 

“That’s not…” he says, trailing off into a silence, because-- why  _ wouldn’t _ it count? He’d somehow just assumed that he couldn’t bring someone who was already attending, someone from the Institute, but if he goes with Tim, calling him his plus one, then that would technically fulfill the requirements, wouldn’t it? Even if Elias may be disappointed and tell him that that wasn’t what he’d meant, Jon at least won’t be directly disobeying him. It would just be ‘a misunderstanding’ at most. 

The idea of going to the party  _ with _ Tim, instead of just going to a party that Tim happens to also be at is… strangely, profoundly relieving. Like when Elias had informed him that Jon could take his pick of who he wanted to bring with him from Research as his Archival Assistants, instead of being saddled with relative strangers. He’s never been to one of these parties before, but at least he’ll be bringing someone safe and familiar with him to this new and hostile event. 

… Hostile is probably laying it on a bit thick, but that’s how it feels. Being able to bring an  _ ally _ with him-- he feels muscles that he hadn’t realized had been tense since his meeting with Elias relax. 

“Come on,” Tim says, “are you really going to make me go to that party  _ without  _ a date? I’ll be humiliated. A laughingstock. I won’t be able to bear it, Jon.” 

“Oh, well I wouldn’t want to inflict such a terrible fate on you,” he says dryly. “Your debutante ball next season will go miserably if people don’t see that you can at least net yourself a date for the non denominational office holiday party.” 

“However will I get a proposal without your help? I’ll be ruined! Please, save me.” 

“Tim, will you do me the honor of, ah… would you be amenable to being my plus one to the party?” He starts the request as seriously and formally as he can, trying to continue to play into the joke, but halfway through he stumbles awkwardly underneath the sincerity that’s lurking beneath his words. 

Tim smiles at him, warm and crooked. “You’ve made my day, boss. All the ladies are gonna be  _ so _ jealous that I got to you first.” 

“Yes, yes,” he says, embarrassed and annoyed at being embarrassed. No one’s going to be  _ jealous-- _ before Tim raised the idea of just asking him, he was sitting in here trying not to panic over having no one to ask. 

Tim tosses the file he’d come in the first place to bring him onto Jon’s desk, tosses him a wink, and walks backwards towards the door. Before he can quite leave, it bursts out of Jon abruptly, awkwardly-- “Thank you, Tim.” 

Because he really is grateful. Dread had been churning in his stomach only moments ago, getting worse and worse as he tried to come up with a solution and couldn’t find one, and the prospect of disappointing Elias, of failing in his duties (no matter how senseless this one seems), of having to admit that he didn’t have anyone who would be willing to tolerate his presence for a single evening began to seem more and more like an inevitability. And then Tim had shown up and neatly nipped it in the bud with a simple suggestion. 

He feels almost silly for not having thought of it himself, with how easily it seemed to occur to Tim. He’d been panicking over nothing. But he _ had  _ been panicking, and Tim had helped him. Is helping him. 

Tim pauses on his way out, gives Jon a look. Smiles again. 

“No problem, boss,” he says, and leaves. 

Elias had told him to  _ dress nice, _ but he’s been going out of his way to dress nicely ever since his promotion, so surely what he wears to work every day is fine? It’s not until he meets up with Tim in the lobby of the Institute that he first doubts himself. 

“What are you  _ wearing?”  _ Jon asks, horrified. 

There’s some sort of colorful, hideous abomination stretched across Tim’s chest-- a Christmas sweater. There’s _ blinking lights _ on it. He supposes that his trousers and shoes are nice, but he can’t even clearly recall what they look like when he closes his eyes due to how overwhelming just the sweater is. 

“What am I wearing? That’s what _ you _ had on at work today. You know that the party happens several hours after work so everyone has time to go home and get nice, right?” 

“Oh,” he says. He’d wondered why that gap had been there-- it had seemed inefficient to him not to just have the party immediately after work, since everyone was already in the building. In fact, he’d never even left, reasoning that leaving to go home only to return a couple of hours later was a waste of time, and he might as well just stay and keep working until the time to attend the party arrived. He looks down at himself, feeling suddenly uncertain. “Is-- do you think it’s acceptable?” 

“... You know what, yeah, you’re fine. S’not like you’re wearing a graphic tee or something. I was just surprised is all, but this works. You look smashing, Jon.” 

Jon somehow doubts that. Again, this is what he wears every day. The colors and cuts vary slightly, but he’s amassed a wardrobe that’s  _ safe _ and screams ‘I am an academic, not a man in his twenties who isn't entirely sure that he knows what he’s doing’. Right now he’s wearing a white button up with a dark green sweater vest over it and a black tie tucked underneath it, along with boring black trousers and brown oxfords. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows at some point during the day without really thinking about it, and after he’d rolled them back down to be more presentable for the party the wrinkles still remained visible in the fabric. He’d had to adjust his tie, having loosened it without meaning to over the day. The oxfords are more scuffed than shiny at this point, due to his daily commute every morning and evening, and the fact that he never seems to find the time to sit down with some shoe polish or something to take care of them. 

He does try to look professional, but _ smashing _ is most likely putting it very generously. It must just be another one of Tim’s little jokes. He shoots Tim’s terrible sweater a skeptical, distasteful look. 

“Was I supposed to be more… festive?” he asks, which for some reason makes Tim bark a little laugh. 

“God, you look like a maid being forced to deal with a dead mouse. No, it’s fine. You don’t _ have _ to come in decked out in blinking lights and a Santa hat. It’s just an option, which I’m very happily taking. It’s not every day you can come into work literally blinking and shining, can you? Elias told me off for coming into work on a Monday with some leftover smudged body glitter on my face once. It wasn’t even on purpose! Do you know how hard it is to wash glitter off?” 

“So… not everyone’s going to be dressed like you, then?” 

“Nah. Only the coolest people. And hey, your vest’s green! That’s on theme! Maybe I could tie a red ribbon around you and complete the color scheme…” 

“You will do  _ no _ such thing,” Jon tells him sternly. 

Tim raises his hands in surrender. Jon nods in satisfaction, and then begins to walk up the stairs towards the distant, muffled din of the party that’s starting up on the second floor. Tim follows after him. They’d both agreed that it would best help their case if they arrived at the party together, and so they do. 

Tim had suggested that they arrive ‘fashionably late’ to Jon earlier. He’s never liked or understood that concept. Why would you be late to something on  _ purpose? _ It doesn’t make any sense. But in this case he’d deferred to Tim’s judgement. Any excuse to not have to spend quite as much time at this obnoxious event, after all. 

What exactly constitutes as fashionably late has never been clear to him either, as it appears to change from event to event. He’s sometimes considered trying to break it down mathematically, as if perhaps it’s all based on percentages? So if arriving after ten percent of the event is over counts as fashionably late, then you’d arrive at X time if said event was Y hours long. He has a feeling it isn’t that straightforward though, unfortunately. It’s probably one of those things you’re just supposed to ‘feel’, and if you don’t innately know how to do that then, well, sucks to be you. 

In this case, at least, ‘fashionably late’ means twenty three minutes after the email that was CC’d to the entire Institute staff said that the festivities would begin. Jon surveys the battlefield. 

The party is being held at the second floor of the Institute, in the biggest room that isn’t full of the moldering files that the Archives are stuffed full of, the books in the library that really wouldn’t take well to having punch spilled on them, or the artefacts that might suddenly become animate and eat someone's face off in Artefact Storage. It’s the Research department, the one with the most employees, and thus having the largest amount of space allocated to them. 

All of the desks are pushed against the walls out of the way, the chairs stacked neatly and tucked away in a corner. Jon had always resented having to participate in that each year, huffing and trying not to grunt as he, Tim, and Sasha all helped each other lift their desks to the edge of the room at the end of the day, and then back in place the next work day. At least he was able to skip that whole production this year, courtesy of no longer being in this department. He idly wonders if anyone’s using his old desk now. 

There’s paper snowflakes strung up across the walls, presumably an acceptably nondenominational decoration to celebrate the winter season. About half of the lights are turned off, resulting in a dim lighting that Jon knows would make him squint if he had to read something, but is most likely meant to make things feel more… cozy? Tinny pop music is playing from  _ somewhere.  _

There’s drinks and appetizers piled up on some of the earlier mentioned desks, gingerbread men and pigs in a blanket and deviled eggs, punch and eggnog and soda. It’s all a strange eclectic mix of food and beverages, since it’s a crowdsourced effort spread out across all of the attendees. Speaking of which. He approaches the closest desk with bottles clustered on it and sets a bottle of wine upon it like an offering to a god who accepts reasonably cheap wine. It’s been his go to ‘mature’ present for most of his adult life. Everyone likes wine, don’t they? Or at least, they pretend they do. It’s an easy thing to regift. 

“Ooh,” Tim says, and nudges him playfully as he deposits his own tupperware of food that Jon isn’t particularly interested in. “Looking to get waaay too drunk at the office holiday party? There’s always one, someone’s gotta take the bullet.” 

“No, thank you,” he says neatly, turning to look over the rest of the people present. It’s about two dozen people or so, which he supposes is a decent turn out considering that less than fifty people are employed at the Magnus Institute. “Is this everyone that will be coming, you think?” 

Tim gives the mingling crowd a glance. “Nah. I don’t see Sasha or Martin, for example, and last I checked they were planning to come.” 

Ugh, Martin. 

“How many-- is that woman wearing  _ antlers?”  _

_ “That woman? _ Jon, she worked in research with us for  _ years. _ And I told you I’m not the only one who dresses festive for this thing! See, I seem pretty restrained now, don’t I? I could be wearing a fake santa beard, like Gene.” 

Jon does a double take, and is dismayed to realize that the man in the crowd-- Eugene, was it? Green?-- that he’d initially glanced over and taken as one of the older employees seems to instead be a man in his thirties wearing a fake beard that looks so cheap that Jon wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he’d dug it out from the dumpster behind a local theatre. 

“Oh, I don’t like this at all,” Jon says. 

Tim grins at him, looking like he’s very much laughing at him without actually outright laughing. Jon narrows his eyes at him. 

“You,” Tim says, sounding terribly amused about it, “are  _ such _ a grinch. I love it.” 

“I’m glad to hear that my suffering amuses you.” 

_ “Suffering. _ Oh, woe is Jonathan Sims, who has to drink some punch and stand around for an hour or two. How are you going to survive the night?” 

“With great effort and not much enthusiasm, I suppose.” 

Over Tim’s shoulder, Jon catches sight of Elias. He has a strange moment where he doesn’t know if he wants to use his appearance as an excuse to get out of the conversation, or hide behind Tim so that he won’t have to stop talking to him and go and speak with Elias instead. The decision ends up being taken out of his hands as Elias notices him, catching Jon’s eyes. He makes a gesture like he wants for Jon to approach him. 

The pang of disappointment he feels in his chest at that clarifies it for him. He had been hoping to get to stay, at least for a little longer. He’d been having fun. Tim is… he can be a  _ lot,  _ sometimes, but Jon does like him. He likes talking to him. 

But duty calls. Jon can hardly cold shoulder  _ the Head of the Institute, _ after all. 

Tim is snickering when Jon informs him, “I see Elias. I should go and speak with him, see what he wants.” 

“Should I give you a parting kiss to convince him of our union?” Tim asks him, clearly joking. 

Despite that, Jon pictures it in a sudden and vivid flash, like the strike of lightning. Leaning in and up to briefly press his lips to Tim’s in goodbye before he goes, his hand pressed to his chest for balance as he pops up onto his toes for just a moment. The casual, matter of fact sort of kiss you can only manage with someone that you’ve kissed for the hundredth time. 

“I don’t--  _ Tim!” _ he hisses, more sharply than is probably warranted. 

Tim raises his eyebrows, and then lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Don’t worry, your virtue is safe from me, boss.” 

He can’t bring himself to look Tim in the eyes, all of a sudden. 

“I-- I’m going now. To talk to Elias.” 

“Good luck and godspeed, Ebenezer Scrooge.” 

Jon beats a hasty retreat from whatever brief fit of delirium _ that _ was, heading towards Elias. Elias, of course, greets him with a mild, reproving look. 

“I’m glad to see you here, Jon,” he says. “Although I see that you’re wearing what you wore to work.” 

Does everyone but him know that that’s apparently not okay? Was there some sort of memo that he missed? 

“Yes, well,” he says stiffly, and doesn’t know how to continue. 

“Where’s your plus one?” he asks pleasantly. 

Jon gestures awkwardly over towards Tim, and immediately regrets it when he looks back and sees that the man is blowing them a kiss. 

“Ignore him,” Jon says, shooting Tim a quick glare that just makes him smile wider before turning away. 

“You brought one of your assistants?” Elias asks. His tone isn’t incredulous or judgemental, just-- it makes Jon feel like he needs to defend himself anyways. He can’t articulate why. “Should I be concerned, Jon? There _ are  _ HR forms that must be filled out in certain situations...” 

He’s confused for a long moment and then what Elias is implying catches up with him all at once. He’s glad that he hasn’t had the time to fetch himself a drink yet, so at least he doesn’t have anything to choke on. On the other hand, now he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

“No! I mean, that’s not-- no, no, no. Tim and I have come here strictly as frie-- colleagues. Coworkers. Platonic coworkers.” He makes himself bite his tongue so he won’t continue. He wishes he could just turn around and walk away without another word. Straight out of the door. He  _ knew _ that coming to one of these things was a bad idea. 

“I see,” Elias says, smiling ever so slightly, and what is that supposed to  _ mean, _ exactly? “So I told you to bring a plus one, and you decided to just order one of your assistants-- who was already planning to attend the party, mind you-- to come with you? How… efficient.” 

“Tim suggested it, actually,” he says feebly. 

“Ah,” Elias says. He takes an unhurried sip of his drink. Jon notices, trying not to crawl out of his own skin with sheer tension, that there’s a sprig of mistletoe tucked into the lapel of his jacket. So even  _ he’s _ accessorized for the event as well. Finally, Elias smiles. “I suppose I’ll allow it, then. It does technically qualify, after all.” 

Jon feels his shoulders sag with relief, and just barely stops himself from saying _ oh thank lord.  _ Which is ridiculous. Honestly, what did he think was going to happen even if Elias didn’t approve? That he’d be fired? Demoted? He’s been gently chastised plenty of times before, simply for rubbing certain members of the public or some of the other staff the wrong way, or even confronting Elias directly to try to persuade him to allow the Institute to interfere with the more clearly legitimate cases directly instead of just observing and recording them. Not bringing a proper date to the holiday party is hardly a cardinal sin. 

He’s just never directly gone against one of Elias’ orders before, he supposes. At least, not since the promotion. 

“Oh, excuse me,” someone says, brushing up against the back of his shoulder as they walk past. He recoils slightly, surprised. He lives in  _ London, _ he uses the underway, he just-- he was unprepared. After all, there’s no need for people to crowd close here-- 

Except, at some point when Jon wasn’t paying attention, more people have arrived. The room has filled up. There are more than two dozen people here now. In fact, every single Institute employee must be here by now, or at least close to it. The Research wing is large, but it wasn’t built with about forty people all clustered inside of it in mind. It’s not _ packed, _ per say, but-- Jon has to take a step closer to Elias to avoid having someone else enter his bubble of space while walking past him. 

“Good lord,” he says, surprised. “Is  _ everyone _ coming?” 

He somehow hadn’t expected that. Sure, he knows that Tim and Sasha come every year, but he hadn’t thought that every single other person would be here too. Isn’t this a busy season? Don’t they have other places to be, other parties to attend? 

“It tends to be a popular event,” Elias says. 

Jon casts a dubious look on him. “Did you tell them too that their attendance is mandatory?” 

Elias chuckles. “I’m afraid that was only necessary with you, Jon.” 

“It can’t be like this _ every _ year,” he says incredulously. 

“It is,” he says. “It just so happens that the people that work here usually don’t have any other engagements scheduled for today. Isn’t that a nice coincidence?” 

That doesn’t seem right to Jon. It’s not Christmas Eve or anything, but aren’t people normally invited to dinners and activities and such with their friends and family before then? _ Jon _ doesn’t have any such invitations, of course, but he’s very well aware that he’s the exception to the rule. It can’t be like that for everyone else here as well.  _ They _ must have people--

“Well, I won’t keep you captive for the entire evening,” Elias says, interrupting his thoughts. “Your plus one must surely be missing you by now, Jon.”

“Ah-- yes, right, you’re probably right.” 

“Do give Tim my seasonal greetings.” 

“Of course,” he says, intending to do no such thing. 

He walks away from Elias in the direction he’d last seen Tim, and the only reason he doesn’t speedwalk is because the room has now become an obstacle course full of small clusters of chattering, laughing people to give as wide a berth to as he can. He very much does not want to be sucked into one of those conversations like it’s a gravity well and he’s an unfortunate, floating piece of debris in space that’s wandered too close for his own good. He can picture it all too well, some hand hooking into his arm as someone far too confident and friendly chirps his name and decides to take pity on him and try to make him feel  _ included.  _

There is nothing quite as painful as being trapped in a cheerful conversation with a group of people who all know  _ your _ name, but you don’t know any of theirs. He knows this from intimate experience. 

He twists his neck, looking for Tim. He’s moved since he left him, damn him, but he’s most likely just gone to go and get himself a drink or something to eat-- oh. There he is. 

In Jon’s absence, Tim has drifted off to go and talk with some other people to entertain himself. Familiar faces, and he thinks he can maybe guess something close to half of their names. They’re laughing together as Tim regales them with some sort of story, if Jon is to judge by his lively hand gestures. Tim has always been better than him at this sort of thing. People. Most are, but Tim especially so. 

Jon takes a step to go and join them, but then Tim must say something that’s especially amusing because they all break out into a peal of laughter, and he-- hesitates. He’d be interrupting, wouldn’t he? They all look like they’re enjoying each other’s company very much. 

It’s fine. Bringing Tim as his plus one-- really, just naming him as such-- was only ever to fulfill Elias’ ridiculous little demand. That’s been taken care of, now. Elias gave it his stamp of approval, or at least a shrug of acceptance. They don’t need to stay attached at the hip all evening. Tim would probably not enjoy that all that much, really. He’s here to enjoy a  _ party, _ something that has never come naturally to Jon. 

Jon leaves him to it, navigating the slowly thickening crowd to get himself one of those drinks. He’s getting parched. Someone laughs sharply, and he happens to be close enough to them that it’s almost directly into his ear. He flinches, and keeps going. Did someone turn the volume on the music up? Presumably because the crowd of people has become large and loud enough at this point that it was being entirely drowned out by the combined chatter. 

He grabs himself a plastic cup and ladles some of the punch into it. He sips at it, and scrunches up his face at the taste. Apparently, someone has already gotten around to spiking it. The sharp, burning alcohol mixes unpleasantly with the tangy, saccharine sweetness of the punch. 

“--got you something--” 

“--my uncle doesn’t celebrate--”

“--you didn’t! I didn’t get anything for you--” 

“--Trish was just saying, actually--” 

“--it’s okay, just open it! It’s a little thing--” 

“--merry Christmas! And a happy--” 

God, it’s too much. Too many different conversations crammed into one room, like a radio that’s playing all of the stations at once, the words all overlapping and running into each other until it turns into an unintelligible mess that he can’t understand a single word of. It’s overwhelming, grating, distracting. It’s  _ loud.  _

He hadn’t realized how reassuring it had been to have a familiar face to latch onto, until he suddenly found himself alone and adrift. He looks back into the crowd in Tim’s direction-- and it’s so dense that he can’t even clearly make him out. If he wants to find Tim, he’ll have to wade out into  _ that. _ And then  _ stay _ there, because that’s where Tim wants to be, after all. 

No thank you. Jon sets down his cup of disgusting punch and leaves, walking along the edges of the room, away from the worst of the press of bodies and noise. Elias had  _ told _ him to stay around for at least an hour, or something like that. He-- he won’t leave properly. He’ll just pop out a bit for some air, and then he’ll come back and let Elias see him, see, he hasn’t run away, he’s still here. 

The second the door falls shut behind him, the wall of noise immediately muffles. It’s sheer relief, compared to moments before. About forty people isn’t all that much-- until you pack them all together inside of a room with a speaker system, alcohol, and an encouragement to converse and bond. He breathes out a sigh, and it sounds as tired as it does relieved. He checks his watch. 

It’s only been twenty minutes. 

He groans, and descends the stairs and takes a bend until he has a bit more distance from the noise, the people, the happy cheer. He lowers himself down to a seat on one of the steps, and just breathes for a while, trying to feel less frazzled. Less… upset. 

Ugh. He truly hates this time of year. And he hates hating it. It really is absolutely stereotypical, Tim is right. He should go and get a monocle and a cane and go and wait to be haunted by three ghosts to teach him the meaning of Christmas. 

He just doesn’t-- why does everyone have to make such a big  _ deal  _ out of it? His family hadn’t made a fuss every time December would roll around. Admittedly, his family has just been him and his grandmother, but still. 

It wasn’t that they didn’t celebrate Christmas, exactly. His grandmother was a protestant Christian. She always seemed like she was going through the motions out of a sense of obligation more than anything else, but she’d been dutiful about it. She’d taken him with her to church to squirm with discomfort and boredom in the pews every Sunday, scolding at him to sit still and behave. She’d set out the nativity set in the living room at the beginning of the month and they’d eat something traditional on the night itself. That was about it. 

They wouldn’t exchange gifts. What would be the point of that, after all? Trading gifts between just the two of them? He got all of his money from the small allowance she could afford to allot to him, so she’d effectively be paying for her own gift. And she already bought him everything he owned, his clothes and his books. Why would she go and buy some glossy, colorful paper to wrap them in just because it was December? It was pointless. 

Christmas Eve was just another day, in their home. He’d read, she’d listen to the radio. They’d eat. Nothing special. It was  _ fine.  _

It wasn’t like that for everyone else, apparently. They got Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or Ramadan or just the opportunity to visit relatives or spend time with their families during the holidays. And that  _ annoys _ him for some reason. He doesn’t know why. It can’t just be a childish jealousy over presents, because he _ still _ feels that irritation gnawing at him whenever he thinks about it too much, now that he’s an adult with his own wages who can buy anything that he might like whenever he wants to, so long as it’s within reason. 

He just. Doesn’t like this time of year. 

Jon sits there and wrestles with the idea of quickly popping out to go and buy a packet of cigarettes from the bodega a block away, break his two year quitting streak just so that he can have something to hold and fiddle with, something to distract himself with. Now that he thinks about it, the last time he’d faltered had been around Christmas as well. What a coincidence. 

He’s so deep in his head that he doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps descending the stairs, until there’s suddenly a pair of legs in his peripheral vision. He startles like he’s just been caught puffing on the cigarettes he’s been slowly convincing himself to go and buy, turning to look up and-- 

_ “There’s _ my grinch” Tim says, sinking down onto the step Jon’s sitting on. “Ditching your date? That’s cold, boss, even for you.” 

“I just-- needed a bit of air,” he says, even though Tim hadn’t sounded particularly accusing or upset. 

Tim tilts his head back and inhales theatrically, waving a hand in front of his face like he’s wafting some delicious scent towards his nose. “Ah, that sweet, fresh hallway air. Much better. It was getting stuffy back there, it’s true.” 

Jon can’t quite tell if Tim’s agreeing with him or making fun of him. It’s not the first time he’s felt this way around him. Other people too, but-- it’s different with Tim. He’s learned that even when it is the case that Tim’s making fun of him that it’s never truly cruel, malicious. Or at least, he seems to do it to everyone around him, and isn’t just focusing on Jon. He can appreciate that, especially considering that Tim will laugh instead of flinch whenever Jon tries his hand at returning the favor. He has a feeling that he often misses the mark, coming up with a retort that’s either too sharp or too dull, but Tim always seems to find it amusing anyways. If Jon himself doesn’t manage to be funny, then his fumbling failure is funny as well, so no matter what he does, he technically succeeds. 

He’s feeling a bit too-- too something right now, though, to try and fall into that rhythm. 

“You didn’t have to leave,” is what he says instead. “I was going to come back eventually.” 

“Were you?” Tim asks. “I don’t know when you left, exactly, but it’s kind of been a while.” 

Jon glances at his watch-- oh, goodness. He really had lost track of time there. He’s been sitting here for at least fifteen minutes. 

“I was going to come back,” he says, anyways. He had been. That had been the plan. He’d just been… putting it off for a bit. Delaying. 

“Alright,” Tim agrees easily. He leans back, planting his elbows on a step behind him, looking for all the world like a flight of stairs is the most comfortable and natural seat in the world. “I did have to leave, though. It’s okay to detach for a bit, but if you leave your date alone at a party for too long then you’re not that good of a date, are you? And I’m nothing if not a good date, I’ll have you know.” 

“You’re not  _ actually _ my date, Tim. I’m just calling you that to fulfill some insipid technicality. You can do whatever you like at this party, so don’t worry about me. Go and have fun. I’ll be back in a moment.” 

Tim sets a hand to his chest, right over his heart. “Ouch. That one stings! And after I brought you a gift, too.” 

“You… excuse me?” Jon asks, sitting up straight now. 

“Well,” Tim says, “that’s what you do for your date, isn’t it? At least at this time of year.” 

“I-- I didn’t bring--” 

Tim waves a hand dismissively in the air. “The only gift I need is your lovely presence, boss. Come on, where is it-- here!” 

Tim digs around inside of his jacket pocket, and then triumphantly raises a small wrapped box. Jon finds himself leaning away from it for some reason. Tim seems to find this terribly amusing, holding it closer to Jon’s face, reminding him of awful little boys who would push worms at squeamish little girls during recess. He frowns at him and makes himself stop recoiling, snatching the box out of his hands. 

“That’s the spirit!” Tim says approvingly. 

Jon turns the wrapped box over in his hands, feeling suddenly uncertain again. It’s small enough to be held in his hand, but large enough that Jon imagines that it must have been rather bulky and uncomfortable in Tim’s jacket pocket. “I don’t-- this really isn’t necessary, Tim.” 

“I do a lot of unnecessary things,” Tim says. “Anyways, I’ve already bought it and I tossed out the receipt, so. You might as well open it, Jon.” 

“You’re a menace,” Jon grumbles, but-- there’s a strange warm feeling bubbling up inside of his chest, and he finds himself holding onto the present tightly, like someone’s going to try and snatch it out of his hands. 

It’s probably a stupid gag gift. Something ridiculous and cheap so that Tim can laugh at the expression on his face when he opens it. Just a little joke. There’s no reason for him to feel this way. 

It’s still the first present anyone’s given him in-- he can’t remember. He can’t remember how long it’s been. 

“Come on,” Tim says, and he sounds oddly soft instead of cajoling. “Open it.” 

He does. He plucks at the tape keeping the ends neatly tucked and folded in place, and he unwraps it carefully, not tearing the paper. Tim makes a fond, huffing sound as he does so, but he doesn’t make a comment. 

It’s a mug. I’M THE BOSS, it proclaims in bold print, the size of the font changing inconsistently with every single line. NO QUESTIONS! NO ARGUMENTS! WE’LL JUST DO THINGS MY WAY. 

“What an awful, wretched thing,” Jon says. He holds it closely to his chest. 

“I saw it and it reminded me of you,” Tim says sweetly. “Oh, and one more thing.” 

Before he can react, Tim reaches out and slaps Jon’s chest. Jon blinks rapidly, looking down at where Tim had hit him-- no, he’d attached something. One of those decorative ribbons that doesn’t actually have any sort of functional purpose, where you can just peel off the bottom of it like a sticker and then attach it to the top of a box or a present to make it look more appropriately festive. Tim has attached it off center to Jon’s chest, like a corsage. It’s red. 

“There we go,” he says. “I told you that you’d look good in a ribbon. Really completes the picture.” 

“I’m taking this off,” he says, carefully setting the mug down like it’s a precious, ancient piece of pottery found at an archeology dig to do just that. 

Tim reaches out and takes his hand, stopping him. “Nooo, don’t! You look great! And hey, I said that your presence is my present, which technically makes  _ you  _ my present, so--” 

“Now I’m definitely taking this off,” he says, and then there’s the clacking of heels and some more quiet footsteps descending the stairs, and he twists around to see Sasha in a black sequinned dress and Martin following her wearing a sweater with a much bolder print than Jon is used to seeing from him. 

“There you two are!” Sasha says. 

“Oops,” Tim says. 

“Did you _ forget _ about us?” 

“Maybe?” 

“Unbelievable.” 

“What is this?” Jon asks. 

_ “This _ flake,” Sasha says, gesturing over towards Tim, who gives an offended gasp at the signifier, “said that he was going to go and get you to prove that you’d actually finally decided to come to the holiday party for once. But you were taking too long, so we decided to bring the party to you.” 

“I got distracted!” Tim cries defensively. 

What is Martin looking at so intently? Jon tries to follow his gaze, and-- Tim’s still holding his hands. Jon pulls his hands out of his grasp sharply, feeling abruptly self conscious. He crosses his arms and shoots a defensive glare at Martin, daring him to say anything. Martin ducks his head, his cheeks flushing. 

“We, um,” Martin says, and then gestures with his arms, which Jon belatedly notices are carrying several different things. Sasha’s as well. “We brought supplies?” 

They’d pilfered several glasses, two bottles, and a sundry of snacks on their way out, apparently. Sasha’s stolen off with an entire bowl of popcorn. 

“You two are the  _ best,” _ Tim says with great conviction. Sasha tosses her hair over her shoulder, a  _ naturally  _ audible just by the smirk on her lips. A small smile lights up Martin’s face. 

The two of them come over and sit on steps above Tim and Jon, setting down their spoils between them. 

“Gene got drunk enough to start singing Christmas jingles,” Sasha says along with a roll of her eyes at Jon’s incredulous look. “Loudly. Every single year Elias says that it’s  _ definitely _ not a Christmas party, and every year Gene shows up looking like a down on his luck Santa who’s ready to spread holiday cheer. I’m Jewish and exhausted.” 

Tim plucks at his Christmas sweater, looking down at it dubiously. “Too much?” 

She waves him off. “I’ve seen worse. Anyways, I know you just like that you get to wear clothes with electric lights on them.” 

“It’s pretty crowded in there, too,” Martin says. “And like Sasha said, loud. To the point that it’s kind of hard to talk to someone you’re standing right next to? It feels weirdly lonely.” 

“Oh,” Jon says. So, Sasha and Martin hadn’t been enjoying the party all that much either, then. But hadn’t Tim liked it? He looks over at him. He’s leaning over, pulling some cookies out of a metal tin, looking for all the world like he doesn’t have anywhere else he wants to be. “Are we just going to… stay here?” 

“Smaller parties are more fun,” Tim says with great certainty, like he’s an authority on the subject. Jon supposes he is, compared to Jon himself. “Not so loud that you can’t hear yourself think or have to shout, and you probably actually know everyone there. I mean, those kinds of parties can be fun too, but that’s more of a club thing than a holiday thing, in my opinion.” 

Jon’s hands drift back to the terrible mug Tim gifted him, like they’re magnets attracted to each other. Martin carefully pours himself a cup of soda, and Sasha tells Tim about how she saw Kelly (who?) kissing Mark (again, who?) in the corner of the room, with Tim reacting as if he’s heard the scandal of the century. He knows everyone here. It’s just three people, quiet and comfortingly familiar. They’ve got snacks and drinks, and none of that awful punch to see. 

This is… this isn’t so bad. He can definitely tolerate  _ this _ sort of party. Maybe even more than just tolerate. 

“Oh!” Martin says, as if remembering something marvelous. “We brought party poppers too!” 

Jon sighs, aggrieved. Tim laughs at him for it. 

“I thought I warmed your heart with the miracle of presents! God, you’re still such a grinch,” Tim says, and Jon doesn’t know when it happened, but he’s sitting near enough for their legs to be touching, warm and close. It doesn’t feel like a stranger suddenly brushing up against him when he isn’t braced for it. It feels… nice. 

“That’s because it was a terrible present,” Jon tells him, but he holds the mug carefully in his hands for the rest of the night, like it’s something fragile and expensive. 

It’s honestly not a bad night. 


	2. Sasha

Several months later, when the mug Tim gave him has gained a chip at the lip of it that’s had its sharp edges sanded down from several washes in the machine, the glaze on it not quite as shiny and new any longer like a well worn and loved favorite t-shirt, Elias ends yet another meeting between the two of them in a hauntingly familiar way. 

“And are you prepared for the gala next week?” he asks, phrasing it as if  _ the gala _ is something that Jon has been repeatedly warned of and told to be ready for. 

Jon is  _ very _ certain that he would’ve remembered if someone mentioned to him  _ at any point _ anything about something referred to as  _ the fucking gala.  _

The way Elias says it, it’s the sort of question that is clearly expecting to be met with a ‘yes, I am prepared’, instead of an actual, honest answer. Just idly checking in with him, making sure that he’s taking care of a task that of  _ course _ he must be handling. 

But before any of that can really register, what slips out of his mouth is a baffled, almost to the point of offense, “Excuse me?” 

“The gala, Jon,” Elias says. “It’s this Saturday.” 

“What-- what  _ gala,” _ he demands, the word  _ gala _ falling out of his mouth the same way, perhaps, the phrase  _ my private yacht is being waxed this weekend _ or _ let’s go golfing at the country club _ would. Incredulity, disbelief, unfamiliarity, along with no small amount of disgust. 

Elias gives him a Look. Jon sits stiffly in his seat, the unpleasant realization that he’s given the wrong answer washing over him. He’d honestly thought that he wouldn’t ever have to feel that sensation again, after he graduated. That’s what he gets for working in academia. 

“Honestly, Jon. Don’t you read the memos I send out to everyone?” 

Absolutely not. They’re long, overly verbose and detailed, and every single time he’s forced himself to read or even just skim one, they have never, not once, contained any useful information that concerned him in any way. They tended to be summaries of last month’s progress, any relevant incidents that took place (Hannah had a baby! Charles had his birthday! Steven is taking some months off for medical leave due to a heart attack! Greta retired!  _ Jon has no idea who these people are),  _ and a general course of action and desired goals outlined for next month. 

When he’d been a Researcher, him reading those memos had been nothing but a waste of time, as he hadn’t been an authority of any kind. He didn’t have a say in anything that happened, he didn’t have a hand in arranging any of it. If any of it involved him in any way, he’d be informed by the Head Researcher anyways. 

Now that he’s the Head Archivist, him reading those memos is still nothing but a waste of time. The Archives are fairly detached and independent from the rest of the Institute, and Elias has given him basically free reign to clean up and run the Archives however he sees fit. What the rest of the Institute does or does not do ultimately has no effect on his job. If the memo did contain information regarding the Archives, he’s certain that Elias would bring it up in one of their meetings anyways, to talk out the details with him. 

Apparently, he was somehow horribly mistaken. What the Archives have to do with a gala, of all things, is completely beyond him. A gala? What is the difference between a gala and a simple party? Jon is fairly certain that the Institute isn’t the kind of place that could get away with hosting something like a _ gala. _ It’s too small, too old, the edges dusty and crumbling. 

“... Yes,” Jon says. He thinks he maybe waited too long to respond to the question, so he hurries to continue, hopefully smoothing over the strange, belated answer. “I, ah, didn’t see anything about a gala, however? I must have missed it.” 

“I see,” Elias says dryly. “Well, to catch you up, the Chelsea Historical Research Center is holding a gala this weekend. They’ve invited representatives from every academic institution in London to  _ converse,  _ apparently. In my experience, that’s code for networking and showing off. We should attend.” 

“And why am _ I _ the representative, exactly? Will anyone else be coming with me?” 

“Scheduling error. I’m afraid I already have something planned with one of our donors on that date, and I simply can’t cancel on him again. You’ll have to go for me.” 

“I don’t see why that has to be the case,” he says, just barely stopping himself from plaintively going  _ but why me? _ “You have other department heads, don’t you? Ask one of them.” 

“I already have,” Elias says. “They’re all busy.” 

“Then-- then send someone else. You know I’m not the best with-- networking. And such.” 

“I’m already not attending in person. If I send someone lower than a department head, it will most certainly be seen as a snub, Jon.” 

_ Then snub them,  _ he wants to say. “It can’t be  _ that _ dire,” he says instead. 

“It really would be, unfortunately. No one can hold an irrational grudge like an academic. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to force yourself through the indignity of wearing a suit and eating appetizers for an evening, as terrible as it is. I’ll email you the time and address, you’ll have to arrange your own transportation.” 

He had been planning to catch up on work this Saturday. He’d recorded a Statement that had left him feeling faint on Wednesday, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to read any new ones since then. He’s behind. And instead of catching up, he’ll be doing  _ thi _ s nonsense. 

_ “Fine,” _ he bites out grudgingly. 

“Excellent. And don’t worry Jon, you won’t be completely alone. You can bring a plus one. In fact, I  _ insist  _ that you bring one.” 

“Lovely,” he hisses. 

“Glad we’re on the same page.” 

Jon grinds his teeth together and starts gathering his things, shoving papers into folders in a haphazard way that he’ll certainly regret in the future. He’s almost reached the door when Elias speaks up one final time. 

“Oh, and Jon?” Jon stalls, turns and looks. Elias is looking at him, and he isn’t smiling now. He looks  _ stern  _ in a way that he usually doesn’t. It shocks him silent, how unexpected that forbidding expression is on Elias’ face. “Don’t just sneak off again like last time. Understand?” 

The holiday party. Opening party poppers and drinking wine in the stairwell with Tim and Sasha and Martin, the music and the crowd a distant, muffled din that didn’t choke him. They hadn’t gone back to the larger party, in the end. He’d entirely forgotten about making an appearance until it was already over. He’d worried about what Elias might say, but he’d never brought it up, so he eventually relaxed, assuming that Elias hadn’t noticed… but he had, apparently. 

“Right,” he says faintly. 

Elias smiles. Whatever strange spell that was breaks, and Elias goes back to being just a rather boring man on the wrong side of middle aged sitting behind a desk with an Excel sheet open on his computer screen. Jon blinks, wondering what the hell he thought that he’d just seen. He must have imagined it. 

“Have a nice day,” Elias says pleasantly. 

“Yes,” Jon says. “Quite.” 

And he leaves. 

When Jon remembers that he’s supposed to bring a plus one _ again, _ he curses. He briefly considers bringing Tim. Their _ date, _ as it were, to the holiday party was surprisingly… not terrible. Not at all, really. He could almost say that he’d enjoyed himself, except for how he definitely won’t be saying that where anyone could possibly hear him, ever. 

But he had, maybe just a little bit, actually enjoyed himself. Maybe. 

He realizes that he’s currently drinking from his I’M THE BOSS mug and sets it down on his desk, swiveling his chair slightly away so that he isn’t looking at it as he mulls the problem over. 

He _ could _ invite Tim. It could be okay. It might even go so far as being fine, although he won’t hold his breath. But then he remembers Elias making that little remark about HR forms needing filled out… Jon had informed him that it was a purely platonic arrangement between the two of them, but-- taking the same man out as his plus one  _ twice _ might raise some eyebrows. Might make them suspect that something that very much isn’t happening is, in fact, happening. Tim has a bit of a… reputation. Jon doesn’t want for anyone to be talking about things that simply aren’t true. 

And that strange, fevered moment at the holiday party, when he’d pictured himself _ kissing _ Tim-- 

No, he doesn’t think that he’ll be bringing Tim again. It-- it’s a bad idea. For reasons. And such. Yes. 

But that leaves the question of who the hell Jon could bring as a plus one now that his one and only option has been crossed off the list. Who? Who could he possibly-- 

“Jon,” Sasha says, opening up his office door without bothering to knock first. She’s frowning down at a file in her hand as if it’s personally offended her somehow. “I found another one of those Statements that refuse to record digitally.” 

This is when Jon’s supposed to reach out and take said Statement to record himself later to the antiquated tape recorder, to grumble and commiserate a bit with Sasha about the inconvenience, the hassle, the annoyance, while he very much refuses to broach the subject of why some Statements simply refuse to be recorded via anything but a tape recorder for no apparent reason at all. Sasha has learned by now that trying to talk about the matter with him is pointless. 

Instead he just stares at her with wide eyes for a long moment, absolutely floored by the reminder that he does, in fact, have more than just the one assistant. 

Sasha looks up from the file to blink at him. “What?” 

“Would you go to the gala with me?” he blurts out with zero elaboration or forethought. 

“What? Gala? Wait, do you mean the one the Chelsea Historical Research Center is hosting? With all of the fancy academics attending?” Something hungry flashes in Sasha’s eyes, and she takes a step closer towards him with each question, leaning in towards him so that he has to lean away in his chair in response. “Elias mentioned that we got an invitation to that, but I thought  _ he’d _ be going.” 

“I, he, ah-- scheduling error?” He’s caught flat footed by her strangely eager response. 

“So he asked for _ you _ to go instead,” she says, like this is very strange. Jon had questioned Elias’ choice himself only hours ago, but it makes him prickle with the need to defend himself to hear someone else do so as well. He may be-- not  _ ideal, _ always, in every way, especially when it comes to talking to strangers. But he doesn’t want for it to be  _ obvious _ to everyone around him. 

“Yes, well, I  _ am _ a department head.” 

“There’s other department heads too. That would probably enjoy going to a gala more than you. No offense.” 

He deflates a bit at that. She’s doubtful because he simply very clearly doesn’t  _ want  _ to attend-- that might be okay. He thinks.

“They weren’t available, unfortunately,” he says. “So I’m being made to go instead, and Elias is insisting on me bringing a plus one. Would you-- that is, I was wondering if perhaps--?” 

She brightens up all at once, reminding Jon of a cartoon wilting flower going straight and bright the moment that it’s watered. 

“Oh, Jon,” she says brightly, “I’m coming with you.” 

“You-- pardon?” He blinks, caught off guard. He hadn’t even had to explain to her how he was having trouble finding anyone else to go with him, the way he had with Tim. She just, what,  _ wants _ to go? 

That stubborn, determined look that he’s familiar with from whenever they end up on opposing sides of a heated debate slides onto her face. Like she _knows_ that she’s right, and she’ll make sure that he knows it as well before she’s willing to walk away. “I really would be the best choice for it, Jon. If you go alone then you won’t have anyone but strangers to talk with, it really isn’t Tim’s sort of scene, and, well, _Martin--_ I don’t want to be mean but--” 

“I asked you,” he says, feeling utterly bewildered to find himself at the other end of a rather intense pitch from Sasha that of _ course _ he should take _ her  _ out to the gala with him. “I-- I’ve already asked you to go with me? You don’t need to convince me.” 

She stalls for a moment, and he can almost _ see _ her rewinding the last few minutes of the conversation in her head. 

“Oh,” she eventually says, and then she smiles. “That’s right, you did! Good. Then yes, Jon, I’m coming with you to the gala. Should we just meet there or at the closest station?” 

“Ah,” he says, feeling like he’s at least two steps behind in this conversation. Had she just outright stated that she was coming to the gala with him, whether or not he wanted her there? “The-- the station?” 

She nods at him firmly, like they’ve agreed on a plan of attack to be executed on the morrow. “Station it is. See you then!” 

“See you--” he says, and then she’s already gone before he can say anything else. Sasha James certainly doesn’t sit around and dawdle when there’s work to be done, he can say that much. 

He’s left behind to try and… process all of that. It had happened rather quickly, he’s fairly sure. He’d made the connection of ‘I need a date’ to ‘I probably should not ask Tim again’ to ‘Sasha!’ and from there he’d been rather abruptly interrupted, Sasha dashing forward and taking the rest of the steps and leaps without him, while he was left behind on the square she’d found him at. 

He hadn’t even had to _ explain _ himself to her. Why he needs for her to go with him. She’d just… very conveniently already wanted to go to the gala with him. No, that’s ridiculous. She’d already wanted to go to the  _ gala,  _ whether or not Jon was there as well. Her desire to go being contingent on his presence is a ridiculous notion. In this case, he’s just her ticket in. But why would she want to go to such a thing at all? 

Well, not everyone despises parties as much as he does, he reminds himself. Sasha has been voluntarily going to the office holiday party for years now, after all. And it’s a gala, not a party. That’s different, isn’t it? He’s not clear on what exactly the dictionary definition of a gala is, how it must officially differ from a party to deserve such a pretentious name. But it probably doesn’t involve paper snowflakes strung up on the walls or tinny, too loud pop music in the slightest. He’s never been to a gala before, but he can only guess that it’s  _ nice. _ For some definition of the word. 

He supposes that the exact reason why she wants to go doesn’t really matter. He has a plus one for the gala and that’s all that-- 

Wait. The _ outfit.  _ Of _ course _ he has to dress nicely for something labeled a gala, and  _ everyone _ had felt the need to point it out when he’d attended wearing the clothes he went to work in at the holiday party. He’s not going through  _ that  _ again. He’ll just have to wear something else. Something nicer. He has to have something else, right? Of course he must. 

“Is that new?” is the first thing Sasha says when he spots and approaches her at the station. She stands out from the crowd, even though it's an evening in London. It’s not that her dress is gaudy, exactly. It’s just a  _ very _ strong shade of red. He doesn’t know enough about fashion to name the cut of the collar or the skirt, the exact style that she’s wearing, but he does know that she looks nice. Very, very nice. 

Jon doesn’t tell her this. The art of paying someone a compliment on their physical appearance without veering into either accidentally insulting or unintentionally flirtatious is something that he’s never been able to properly learn. It’s best just to avoid it entirely as a lost cause. 

She’s looking him up and down as she asks the question, and he feels abruptly and unpleasantly  _ inspected.  _

“No,” he immediately blurts out defensively. He regrets it almost immediately-- it's pointless to lie over something so harmless, isn’t it? But the thought of admitting that yes, he did in fact go and buy an entire new suit for this thing, and it hadn’t been cheap either, does not feel acceptable. It would make him look too… eager, or pathetic, he thinks. 

He had, as it turned out, not had something nicer. There had been one dusty suit tucked away in the back of his closet. He’d thought about wearing it for all of a moment, before he remembered the first and last time he wore it. His grandmother’s funeral. He’d been twenty years old at the time, and he’d bought it in a haze on the vague but confident certainty that she wouldn’t approve of him showing up to her funeral in jeans. It had been ill fitting then, and it’s even more so now. He’d thrown it out. 

Disclosing all of that to Sasha is  _ not _ an option, of course. If he lets her know that yes, he did in fact buy a whole new suit for just this occasion, she’ll be left to assume that either he literally had no other formal clothes before this moment (he’d had  _ one _ outfit, even if it’s in the bin now, so that’s not fair) which would be overly pathetic, or that he cares so much about this stupid party that he decided to go above and beyond and get something shiny and new, which would be overly eager. And also pathetic, probably. So, lying it is. 

“Okay,” she says, but she says it slowly, her eyes narrowed on his suit jacket. He resists the urge to fidget with his tie, or check if he’d remembered to remove the price tag. He knows he did. He triple checked before he left his flat. 

It’s not that he thinks that this gala is important enough to go and blow a bunch of money for a new outfit on-- except for how that’s exactly what he did. It’s just-- he doesn’t want for people to… stare at him. Or give him dismissive glances. Or notice him at all, really. Ideally, he’ll blend right in so thoroughly that no one will even think to talk to him at all. 

“Well then,” he says forcefully, hoping to just power his way through and past  _ that _ unfortunate interaction like it never happened, “let’s get this over with, shall we?” 

“Hm? Oh yeah, sure.” Sasha turns to walk out of the station, and he follows with relief. “So, Elias is basically just… forcing you to go to this thing?” 

“That is more or less the sum of things, yes.” 

She makes a disapproving noise. “That’s ridiculous. He’s got how many people working for him? And he decided to send the single one who doesn’t want to go at all? He could’ve so easily picked anyone else at all. It’s almost like he’s going out of his way to make people miserable.” 

“I-- yes. Yes, exactly! Surely there’s someone else he could send that might actually want to be there, but no, apparently not.” He decides to forego mentioning Elias’ reasoning that it needs to at least be a department head who attends, and none of the others were available. He isn’t going to argue for Elias’ case when he isn’t even here. He’s being forced to go to yet another stupid, meaningless party because of his promotion and it doesn’t make any _ sense  _ and he doesn’t _ like _ it and it feels good to hear someone else agree with him. 

Sasha always talks such sense. He takes a moment to just be pleased that she’s coming with him to this thing. Her company is often pleasant. The event will probably be positively bearable with her at his side. 

Sasha makes an agreeing, disgruntled noise, and then they just walk together for a while. He likes that about her as well, how she doesn’t feel the urge to fill every single silent moment with chatter. It’s… relaxing. An expectation lifted from his shoulders. 

“I think this is it,” he says eventually, breaching the easy silence between them. The stone edifice of a building before them doesn’t stand all that much out on this street, but there are people in formal wear walking into it, which he thinks is a good sign. He’s not sure if the address Elias gave him is where the blah blah research center actually operates, or if it’s a building that they’ve temporarily rented for the event, or what. He doesn’t particularly care either. 

“Wait,” Sasha says, and stops where she is on the sidewalk. He blinks and looks behind his shoulder at her, having drifted forwards a few more steps without her. As he watches, she digs through her large purse and takes out a ziplock bag, bends over, and-- takes off her shoes? She pulls them off, opens the ziplock bag, and pulls a pair of black heels out of them and puts them on. 

_ “Oh,” _ he says, noticing for the first time that the beat up sneakers she’d been wearing on the way here doesn’t exactly match the rest of her outfit. 

“My feet would be  _ ruined _ if I’d walked all the way from the station in these things,” she says, stuffing her sneakers into the ziplock back and then her purse. 

“I see,” he says. He thinks he does remember something about Georgie complaining about chafing and blisters sometimes, yes. “That’s a very practical solution.” 

“Thank you,” Sasha says primly, in the tones of a woman humbly being recognized for her genius. 

She looks at him expectantly, and it takes him a moment to realize what she’s waiting for him to do, and he gives her his arm to hold. Georgie had done that a lot too, when she’d wear heels. To be fair, she usually only wore heels when they were going out for drinks as well, and so would end up at best tipsy by the end of the night and would need help walking in a straight line without stumbling anyways. She needed the help with maintaining her balance. He didn’t quite get why she went to so much trouble, wearing such inconvenient shoes, when she’d look perfectly nice in some much more practical flats instead. But he guiltily hadn’t actually minded; the excuse to touch her, to have her hold his arm as they walked down the street, was very welcome. 

He realizes that he’s currently comparing Sasha, his coworker, to his ex girlfriend much more than is probably appropriate in his head right now, and he tries to stop that entire track of thought. 

Sasha’s arm linked around his, her hand set on his arm to help her with her balance, is warm. Their sides keep brushing up against each other, with how closely they’re walking together now. 

Damn it. 

“So,” he says, clunky and abrupt, fumbling for a distraction from the fact that someone whose company he quite enjoys is  _ touching _ him. “What did you think of the Wrede statement?” 

Work is a safe topic. It’s the vast majority of what they talk about, in fact, and he suspects that that would be the fact even if they didn’t work in the same department together. They both went into this line of work for a reason, and it’s because it fascinates them. 

“Oh, I’ll eat my entire purse if it’s actually true,” she says. 

He makes a disdainful noise of agreement. The supernatural  _ is _ interesting and he _ does _ want to know everything there is to know about it, so it’s annoying that most of the time he’s just sifting through fake garbage. He sometimes feels like a man panning in a river for small nuggets of gold, and mostly just finding dirt and more dirt over and over again. 

“I find it a touch convenient that the ghost could be so easily held at bay with a simple cross,” he says. 

“And lines drawn in salt,” Sasha says. “And praying, and holy water, and running water, and cats for some reason? That ghost had more weaknesses than a classical vampire.” 

“It read like an unimpressive short story written for a creative writing class,” he grumbles, and Sasha gives a little peal of laughter at that. Pleased, he smiles as he leads her up the stairs to the building. 

“Perhaps we should hire a fourth assistant with a degree in English literature,” he murmurs to her. “They can give the discredited statements grades based on plot and pacing. If I’m going to be made to read made up drivel, it should at least be  _ interesting _ made up drivel.” 

“We can make Tim do that,” she says. “He used to work in publishing, so that sounds like it could be in his wheelhouse.” 

“This accounting of a vampire attack is likely false, due to the fact that it contradicts itself multiple times regarding time and location, and the writer refused to answer any follow up questions,” he recites dryly. “In addition, it lacks any artistic merit due to its overuse of purple prose, and the drama was heightened to the point that it lost all impact. The vampire was more chewing on the scenery than it was on anyone’s necks.” 

Sasha tilts her head back and gives a gleeful, unlady like cackle. He takes it in with a warm curl of satisfaction in his chest. Receiving false statements is terribly annoying, but being able to make fun of them like this with Sasha almost makes up for it. He’s no charismatic prankster like Tim, but he can still make Sasha laugh, and he likes that. He likes it a lot. 

They make it inside, and he supplies the invitation Elias had given him as verification for entry. The paper is thick, the font cursive, and he just knows that this was sent in the actual physical _ post  _ instead of being emailed and then printed out later. He knows that that’s just… being fancy, or something, but he still quite doesn’t see the point of it. It’s a waste of money, isn’t it? 

But they get inside either way. 

“I’ve never been to the sort of party where you needed proof of invitation to get in before,” he remarks as they both surrender their coats to a room stuffed full of outerwear and a few closed umbrellas from the more cautious and prepared party goers. 

“Oh, you’ve been to a lot of those, have you?” Sasha asks him, and she sounds half teasing, he thinks. He scrunches up his face at her. 

“I  _ did  _ go to university, you know,” he points out. Admittedly, he’d preferred the parties that were more ‘lets go out to that pub with good music with about eight of our friends and have a few drinks’ than the college parties that were traditionally shown on television. Overdrinking to the point of blackout, drinking games, being dared to kiss strangers, jumping naked into a pool as onlookers cheer, tight, packed, loud crowds of people that he’d never met before. No, none of those. He’d tried once, and he’d ended up climbing out of a window to escape before an hour had passed. 

“Is this when I learn about your sordid past as a wild adventurous college student who was willing to try anything? Because if so, you have to give me pictures so I can share with Tim.” 

He’d mostly just talked to Georgie at those little parties as well, now that he thinks about it. But it still counts, surely. 

“Oh yes, I was a real party animal,” he says dryly. He had, perhaps, done some experimenting at the time. Satisfied some curious questions that had been niggling at the back of his mind for a few years. But on the whole, he hardly thinks it was  _ sordid. _ No one was arrested or hurt, so surely it can’t have been that terrible. 

Sasha gives him a grin that tells him that she’s perfectly confident that he spent his entire time at uni dressed in tweed and reading textbooks. He has a little flutter of defensiveness over that, an urge to argue with and convince her that he wasn’t  _ that _ bad, but then someone else enters the coat room, and he decides to bite his tongue and not tell her about the time he tried mushrooms. 

“Well, reign it for tonight, you absolute madman,” she says playfully as they exit the coat room, edging past the other occupants. “This isn’t that sort of party. If you whip your shirt off and hang from the chandelier, we might get thrown out!” 

“I’ll restrain myself,” he says gravely. 

“What a relief,” she says, and then they walk into a larger room and enter the party proper. No, wait. The _ gala.  _

At a glance, he’d say that there’s… three, four dozen people in the room? They’re all dressed nicely, the way he and Sasha are, he’s relieved to notice. Not business casual the way he might dress for work, or pretty but in a casual way, the way someone might try and primp themselves for a night out on the town, nor glamorous like people walking the red carpet on the television. It’s the sort of formal you might wear to… well, your grandmother’s funeral. Or a relative’s wedding, using a less grim example. 

It’s about the same amount of people that had been at the holiday party, but it doesn’t feel anywhere near the same amount of suffocating or overwhelming. There’s some sourceless music playing, but it's violins and such, and it’s playing so quietly that it’s easy to tune out and forget. The atmosphere is more reserved, strangers calmly talking to each other instead of coworkers who see each other every day cracking jokes and laughing with each other. 

Perhaps most importantly of all, the space is just  _ bigger. _ And somehow, that makes the party feel smaller. There’s as many people, or maybe even a bit more, than there had been at the holiday party, and yet there’s more breathing space between each person. No one brushes up against him as they walk into the room. No one accidentally shouts something practically right into his ear. He doesn’t get a cloying whiff of someone’s perfume because he has no choice but to stand too closely to them. 

Strangely, he feels more uncomfortably exposed than he does relieved. He’d at least been able to blend into the crowd, at the last party. He’d been elbowing his way past people, and yet he’d been practically invisible anyways, no one paying the slightest bit of attention to him. 

He feels eyes on him now. Because they just walked in, he knows. It can’t be for any other reason. They’re just the new ones, people are just giving them a glance to see if they already recognize or know them. Which they  _ don’t.  _

He lets Sasha pull him deeper into the room, and he tries to concentrate on the decorations instead. Candles. Ribbons. Some pictures on the walls, presumably of employees. It’s not Ming vases and gorgeous oil paintings, but it doesn’t look homemade or like it was dug out of a dusty box in the basement either. There’s a long table against one wall, and it’s holding drinks, glasses, small delicate cakes set out on platters ready for the taking, and small delicate plates to put them on. No tupperware boxes full of someone’s homemade potato salad in sight. 

“I suppose that it’s a step up from the office holiday party,” he says. “But that’s not exactly a high bar to clear. I’m not sure that I’d go so far as to call this a  _ gala.” _

“Mm,” Sasha agrees. “Not even a chandelier for you to hang from, in fact. Academia’s never as ostentatious as it’d like to be, I guess.” 

“I hope you aren’t too disappointed,” he says, remembering that Sasha had been downright eager to come here. Had she been picturing something more… ritzy? Waiters with hors d'oeuvres, people taking turns waltzing on the dancefloor? He eyes her, but she doesn’t look let down in the slightest. She doesn’t look particularly excited either, though. She’s not even looking at him, but instead surveying the room with the look of an army general deciding on their course of action. Not grim, exactly, but serious. 

“No,” she says absent mindedly, still not looking at him. She’s looking at the people, he realizes. Intently evaluating them. “No, this is fine.” 

He’s about to ask her what’s going on, but then her eyes seem to lock on someone, and she squares her shoulders and starts walking forward. He’s still linked to her arm, and ends up coming along for the ride. 

“Sasha?” he asks her. They’re not heading towards the table with the food and the drinks. 

She gives him a bit of a startled look, like she’d somehow briefly forgotten that he’s  _ right here _ despite the fact that her arm is threaded through his. Then she leans in and whispers, “His name is Marc Montgomery, I did a bit of research before this, I recognize him from his Facebook. He’s the one that runs this place.” 

“A-- alright?” he says, and then before he can ask why it’s so important that they go and talk to Marc Montgomery, they’re within his hearing range. He’s an old man, older than Elias himself by perhaps a decade or two. He’s in the middle of talking to two other people, but as Sasha approaches him implacably with a polite smile fixed firmly on her face, his conversation falters to a halt and he turns to return the polite smile, even if his seems a bit blanker, more confused. 

Are they here to… pay their respects to the host? Is that something they’re supposed to do? Hell, was Jon supposed to do research as well? He didn’t realize that parties are something you have to  _ study _ for. Or perhaps that’s what makes a gala different from a party. 

“Hello,” Marc says warmly. 

_ “Marc,” _ Sasha says, much more warmly. She detaches from Jon so she can casually close the distance between her and Mark and give him a friendly hug. “It’s been too long! It’s so good to see you again.” 

Hadn’t she just said that she only recognized him from his Facebook picture? 

Sasha disengages the hug, taking a step back. Marcus blinks a bit, and then gives her another friendly smile. His eyes search her face, quickly darting over towards Jon as well. 

“You’re right,” Marvin says in the end. “Too long, it’s been too long. How have you been, my dear?” 

“Great! I’ve been doing so much interesting work. I was even promoted recently. How about you? How’s Cynthia?” 

His smile somehow grows more friendly and more strained at the same time. “Oh, she’s lovely. Gotten into painting, lately. May I introduce you to my friends? This is Gerald Lord, and this is Sebastian Christianson…” 

He leaves off a leading, expectant silence that Sasha leaps to fill. 

“Sasha James,” she says, reaching out to shake Gerald and Sebastian’s hands before either of them have the time to offer them. Martellus looks relieved as she does so. “I’m a research-- an archival assistant. Pleasure to meet you.” 

They both echo what a pleasure it is to meet her. 

“Sasha,” Marlin says in satisfaction, drawing her name out. “You were recently promoted, you say, Sasha? How has it been adjusting to your new role as an, ah, an archival assistant? Sasha?” 

“It’s been going very well,” she says. “I’ve always been adaptable, and I learned my new responsibilities quickly.” 

“I see, I see,” Merlin-- wait, that can’t possibly be his name. What had it been now again? “And who is this? Mr. James, perhaps, hmm?” 

“What?” Sasha asks, looks at Jon, looks at whatever his name is, and gives a polished little laugh. It’s not at all like the witch like cackle he’d coaxed out of her earlier on their way into the building. “No, no. This is my-- my plus one, Jon.” 

He probably should’ve joined in on the first ring of introductions, but he’d let it slip him by, surprised and biting back questions as Sasha pushed on like a force of nature. He puts his hand out now. He knows better than to try and make himself smile when he’s uncomfortable-- it comes out as a grimace more often than not. 

“Jonathan Sims,” he says, and the rest of the spiel flows out smooth and natural with practice and repetition, although his audience is usually just a quietly whirring tape recorder. “Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.” 

The man whose hand he’s shaking-- he can’t remember which one is which, unfortunately-- stills at that, his eyebrows rising with surprise. 

“Oh?” he says, shooting a questioning glance towards probably-not-Merlin. Merlin is biting his lip, and Sasha’s friendly, polite smile has gone… stiff, in a way that he can’t quite put a finger on. Like she’s impatiently waiting for someone to finish taking a picture, and she can’t drop the smile until they’re done. 

“That’s right,” Merlin says. “I remember now. I invited a representative from the Magnus Institute.” 

“Oh,” says one of the men. “Why?” 

Jon stiffens. “I beg your pardon?” he asks sharply. 

“I invited them,” the man who was most likely not named after a mythical wizard interrupts, raising one of his hands slightly in a casually pacifying gesture, “because I thought that it would be interesting to invite someone from  _ every _ academic institution in London, and a few more surrounding cities as well. Variety, isn’t that right? It leads to an interesting exchange of ideas.” 

“I wasn’t aware,” one of the men says, in tones of mild polite discovery, “that the Magnus Institute was an academic institution. I suppose you learn something new every single day.” 

“Sebastian,” Merlin gently chides him, and Jon _ bristles.  _

“The Magnus Institute follows  _ every _ standard set out for an academic institution,” he snaps off. Well, maybe not the Archives, but he’s  _ fixing  _ that. “We methodically gather information related to our subject, we research it, we catalogue it, we--” 

“There, there,” Mer-whatever says. “Of course, we all know that. You misunderstood him.” 

The man is still indulgently smiling at Jon like he’s a toddler waving a crayon drawing around insisting that he’s created the next greatest work of art, so no, he suspects that he most likely did _ not _ misunderstand him. 

“It was good seeing you,” Sasha says. Her hand clamps around his arm with an iron grip, and she proceeds to pull Jon away from the little cluster of men. He twists his neck around to watch them as they go. One of the men-- the rude one-- is already saying something in a low aside to the other one. He can’t make out his words, but he recognizes the tone of voice. It’s the one Tim uses when he’s impersonating a ghost for the sake of a joke. The other two men chuckle. Jon wants to march right back towards them and demand to know what’s so damned funny. 

He knows what’s funny. But he can’t have an argument with them about if they won’t admit it, can he? 

“Okay,” Sasha says, sounding tight and frustrated. “That did  _ not _ go as well as I’d hoped.” 

Jon gets a distinct sensation of deja vu. It’s from every single time he’s been left to make pleasant small talk with someone and then instead made an absolute mess of it, and it was someone else’s problem to deal with. An uncomfortable guilty, embarrassed pang goes off in his stomach. 

“He started it,” he says defensively, sounding exactly like a petulant child even to his own ears. But he  _ had, _ even if he hadn’t said anything directly, he’d been plenty clear of what he thought about--! 

“I know,” she says. “Rude ass. It’s fine, there’s other people here, and I clearly wasn’t going to get anywhere with that guy there anyways. Just have to try again…” 

“Try again-- what _ was _ that?” 

“Hm?” 

“I thought you’d never met M-- that man before?”

“Oh,” she says. “Yes, see, Tim told me that if you just act like you already know someone, they might just assume that they forgot you and desperately go along with it while pretending like they definitely remember you, because they’re trying to be polite and don’t want to make things awkward or something. And it’s true! Especially if you just casually pepper in some personal details that can  _ easily _ be found online. Like their wife’s name, for example.” 

“That… I think that’s something scam artists do?”

“Well, whatever helps.”

“Helps with  _ what?”  _

But then Sasha unflinchingly breaches yet another little cluster of chatting academics, and they spin into yet another discussion which Sasha unapologetically inserts herself into. They make their introductions, they shake hands, they make pleasant, meaningless small talk. Pleasant as in no one even once mentions viscera or blood or gore or death, and there’s no name calling or raised voices either.  _ Not _ pleasant as in  _ enjoyable.  _ He almost feels like a young boy again, trapped at his grandmother’s side as she catches up with some other old women at the end of church service, her hand an iron grip around his because the _ last  _ time she’d let him wander off, he’d managed to find his way into the very top of the bell tower and had, in fact, rung it. He’d just wanted to know if he  _ could.  _

But he’s an adult now, a professional. He can’t just stew in impatient, bored silence as everyone talks about things that he aren’t interested in and people that he doesn’t know. He forces himself to participate, even if it’s the bare minimum of agreeing noises, _ I see _ and  _ go on _ and  _ really?  _

He feels like he’s trapped in some unique, sadistic ring of hell, but everyone around him keeps smiling, so he’s apparently alone in this feeling. They’re exchanging looks as well as they grin, like there’s been some sort of joke, but he’s fairly certain that one hasn’t happened yet. He is forcing himself to pay attention, as torturous as it is. He wonders what’s so amusing. 

And they keep asking strange questions as well, despite how firmly he’s trying to remain just a polite wallflower in this conversation. 

“What degree do you have?” one of them asks him. “Where did you attend?”

“Oh, um,” he says, and he really does hate it when he stammers, especially in front of so many people. It’s just-- it feels like the question had come from out of nowhere. They hadn’t been talking about that, and more importantly, this particular person, whoever the hell they are, hadn’t been talking to him specifically. He wonders what exactly gave them the idea to focus on him, and if there’s anything he can do to make sure that it doesn’t happen again. “Oxford University. I majored in--” 

_ “Oxford,” _ one of them repeats, interrupting him. “Really?” 

He doesn’t see why they should sound  _ that _ incredulous. 

“Yes, really,” he says, annoyed. 

“But how  _ long _ exactly did you attend--” one of them starts, but Sasha talks over them brightly. 

“Oh, I think I see Jeffrey over there! We should go and say hi. Good to talk to you!” 

And with that she drags him right out of the little gathering. He can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief once they’re out of there. 

“That was… unbearable,” he says, searching for a less dramatic word and failing to find it. “Were those people behaving strangely?” 

“They can’t all be like that,” Sasha says, but she almost sounds like she’s talking to herself. He looks at her, and her brow is furrowed, a tight, anxious frown marring her face. “Definitely not. Just bad luck.” 

“Sasha?” 

Without another word, she drags him into yet another conversation. He’s upset and disappointed by this, after having so recently just escaped the last one. They introduce themselves, shake hands, weather mind numbing chatter. Strange questions and smiles are exchanged, and Jon is left feeling like everyone else in the room knows something that he doesn’t. It’s a  _ deeply  _ aggravating feeling. His new suit is still stiff, scratchy. He should have given it a wash after he bought it, to make it feel just a bit softer and less prickly. 

Eventually, Sasha comes up with yet another excuse to disengage from the conversation. She doesn’t give him any time to relax before she dives into yet another one. They go through the exact same song and dance. They disengage. She marches determinedly into yet another discussion. They do it all over again. They leave. They try again. 

It’s  _ exhausting.  _ He hadn’t expected this from her, when he’d tried to picture what tonight would be like. He’d thought that her presence would make it all feel a bit more bearable, familiar, and instead it feels like she’s a merciless coach putting him out on the field over and over again despite how tired he’s getting. Why is she  _ doing _ this? He might have maybe expected this dizzying level of determined socialization from Tim, but Sasha, while not as bad as Jon, has never struck him as someone who’s happy and eager to talk to strangers all night. She certainly doesn’t seem happy and eager to be doing this. Each time she walks away from a conversation, there seems to be more tension held in her shoulders, her jaw clenched tighter. But nevertheless, she persists in throwing herself back into the social fray over and over again, like a dog with a bone. He doesn’t _ understand.  _

He’s missing something. 

“Sasha,” he says. “What is going on?” 

She doesn’t answer him, but it feels more like she hasn’t noticed him than that she’s deliberately ignoring him. She’s surveying the room, apparently searching for any discussion that they haven’t already involved themselves in and then quickly abandoned. It’s like she wants to talk to every single person here, which sounds _ very _ unappealing to him. 

“Not him,” she mumbles under her breath. “We already did him. _ Definitely  _ not her… what about--?” 

_ “Sasha,” _ he says more sharply. 

She turns and looks at him, blinking as if he’s appeared from nowhere. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks her bluntly. “You’re acting…  _ strange.”  _

“I’m not,” she automatically denies. “I’m just trying to find someone to talk to.” 

She turns back to considering the other guests. The nearest cluster casts a considering glance back at them. Someone says something. They laugh. Sasha twitches. 

“You can talk to _ me,” _ he says in exasperation. “Isn’t that the point of a plus one? To have someone at hand that you  _ know _ isn’t unbearable to speak with.” 

Belatedly, it occurs to him that she may be desperately searching for someone to talk to because he is, in fact, not good enough to humor her for an entire evening, and he’s being very presumptuous and arrogant right in this moment in assuming that she finds him bearable to speak with. They don’t ever spend much time with each other without Tim around as well, after all. 

Before the sudden little jolt of doubt and insecurity can even begin to settle, she’s shaking her head. 

“It’s not about that,” she says. 

“Then what is it about?” he demands, feeling exhausted and frayed and at the end of his damned rope. 

Sasha twitches again, and he realizes that someone else has laughed. He doesn’t understand why that keeps startling her. It’s a party-- a gala, he means. People make jokes at these sorts of things. Even if they’re not good jokes, people still dutifully laugh at them. 

“I’m--” she says tightly, and then stops to take a deep breath. “I’m… going to the restroom. Excuse me.” 

“Oh,” he says. “Alright--” 

She goes. He stands there, feeling awkward and alone and irrationally abandoned to brave the wilderness all on his lonesome, fated for a grisly end. But she’s just going to the restroom. She’ll be back soon. 

He stands there. 

He realizes that, due to being at the mercy of Sasha’s strange quest to talk to practically every single person present, he hasn’t even had the chance to go and fetch himself a drink yet. For a lack of anything better to do, he goes and fixes that. Whatever it is-- apple cider, champagne?-- tastes bubbly and overly sweet, a bit on the cheap side. He sips at his drink. There’s a strawberry at the bottom of the glass, and it’s mildly satisfying to tilt his glass back and eat it. It sort of makes him want to immediately drink three more, just for the strawberries, but he restrains himself. He gets himself a small cake. It looks adorable, but it tastes stale. He sips at his drink. He fidgets. 

She’s been gone for a while now. 

That’s-- well that’s none of his business, is it? How much time she’s taking in the restroom, he knows that he’s supposed to politely ignore that. She might be dealing with… womanly issues, and such. 

He waits. He rips a paper napkin into ruined confetti. 

She doesn’t come back. 

He waits. Crosses his arms, taps his finger compulsively against his arm. 

She doesn’t come back. 

He checks his watch. It’s been _ fifteen minutes.  _

That’s how long he’d sat on the stairs after he’d fled from the holiday party before Tim went to come and find him, he remembers.  _ It’s okay to detach for a bit,  _ he’d said,  _ but if you leave your date alone at a party for too long then you’re not that good of a date, are you?  _

He doesn’t want to be a bad date. 

\--A bad plus one, he means. Whatever. Semantics. He goes to search for the restroom, not certain if he’s doing the right thing, but-- he can’t just wait for her forever, can he? 

There’s a comedic trope he’s seen on television sometimes, of a horrified person crawling out of the bathroom to escape their terrible blind date. Good lord, it’s nothing like  _ that, _ is it? He hasn’t been that awful, has he? 

A lot of the time when he’s been particularly awful, he only realizes it after the fact, when it’s too late. 

He finds the restroom. It is, luckily enough, not the sort that is separated by gender. He walks inside. There are three stalls. They’re all empty. 

“Damn it,” he says. Perhaps she went to a different restroom? But that feels like a dim hope. Where could she have _ gone?  _

She hadn’t seemed like she’d been enjoying herself. Maybe she really has just… left. Without telling him. He-- he doesn’t know how to feel about that. Bad, he supposes. 

Is he supposed to walk back out into the party and act like nothing’s wrong? That sounds utterly miserable. But he can’t just linger in the restroom forever like some sort of perverted spectre either. He leaves. He avoids the turn he will have to take to get back to the party, and instead walks deeper into the building. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he just-- 

He spots a door that presumably leads outside, based off of the view from the small foggy window set into it. Not the obvious entrance they’d used to first enter the building, but an unobtrusive side door. Jon recognizes it for what it is. He’s used this sort of door plenty before in his past, although he’s been trying to quit recently. He doesn’t have any cigarettes on him, but-- it would be nice to have somewhere quiet and private to just… sit, for a bit. He can’t relax in that room full of people, even when no one’s talking to him, demanding his energy. He feels so watched, so exposed. 

He opens the door, steps through, and lets it fall shut behind him. 

“Oh,” he says, just as Sasha’s twisting around to look at him. 

“Jon,” she says, surprised. She’s sitting on the first step down from the small little flight of stairs leading down to the ground. 

“I thought you’d--” He sees what she’s holding, and is immediately distracted from what he’d been saying. “You smoke?” 

She looks at the damningly lit cigarette in her hand, looks back at him, back at her cigarette. Her lips thin like she very much wants to deny it, but knows that at this point that it’s a rather hopeless lie. 

“... No,” she says in the end anyways, and then proceeds to take a drag from the cigarette. 

“Ah,” Jon says. “I see.” 

He also doesn’t smoke. He also finds himself smoking a cigarette or two every year despite that. Always during the most stressful times of year as well, he remembers. Concern lances through him. 

He sits down on the step next to Sasha. He’s not sure if it’s the right move, but she doesn’t give him a look like he’s made a serious misstep, so. It will have to do. 

“You could have just told me that you were leaving to do… this,” he says. “I was getting rather worried about the condition of your, um. I was concerned.” 

She snorts at that, wry and improper, nothing like the perfect little laughs she’s been throwing out all night. He vastly prefers it. 

“Was I gone that long?” 

_ “Distressingly _ long. I wondered if you’d abandoned me to my fate, to be perfectly honest.” 

“Oh, no,” she says, sounding more amused than horrified or apologetic. “Oops. Guess I lost track of time.” 

“Do you want to go back?” 

She considers his question. She ashes her cigarette. She takes so long to consider it, that he realizes that she isn’t actually planning to answer it. 

“Or… do you want to finish your cigarette first, or--?” 

She more throws the cigarette down than she drops it, and the twist of her foot as she stamps it out is borderline vicious. 

“They’re _ laughing _ at us, Jon,” she snarls, and he stills. 

“They as in… that rude man? I, ah, I don’t remember his name, but the owner of this place introduced him--” 

_ “No,” _ she cuts him off. “He was just the most obvious about it. They’re _ all  _ laughing at us, do you realize that? Every single one. Because we research ghost stories. We were invited as a  _ joke. _ That’s all.” 

“Oh,” he says, and things readjust and recontextualize inside of his head. The sly exchanged glances, the strange smiles, the out of place questions. Something in his stomach sours. “Oh.” 

She rakes a hand through her hair, frustrated and thwarted. “I had a  _ plan,”  _ she says. “I studied, I prepared, I researched. It’s not fair!” 

“A plan?” 

“I was going to-- to _ impress  _ someone, make a good first impression. I’ve been trying to find a new job for months now, but it’s impossible. This is how you have to do it, now. Networking, talking to people at parties and making nice. Right? But it’s not working because everyone thinks I work for a place that just researches fake stories by college kids about alien abduction stories with  _ probing _ or whatever. They’re not taking me  _ seriously.”  _

_ I’ve been trying to find a new job for months now, _ rings through his head. It suddenly feels harder to breathe. 

He’s been her boss for months now. Is that why-- is he-- 

“I-- I see,” he says. He tries to sound calm, steady. He’s not sure that he entirely manages it. “I’m… sorry that you’re having trouble doing that. Is-- is there anything I can do to help?” 

She shakes her head. 

There are two people in the world that Jon could go so far as to say are possibly his friends. One of them is trying to leave. Any icy sort of desperation makes him lean forward and ask, almost plead, “There must be _ something _ I can do. What am I doing wrong-- that is, I’d be very sorry to see you go, Sasha. You’re excellent-- an excellent assistant. You’d be missed.”  _ I’d miss you.  _ “Is there anything that you would like for me to change?” 

She turns her head and looks at him. She looks nonplussed. “Jon, it isn’t anything that you’ve done.” 

“Then why do you only want to quit now that I’ve become your boss?” he demands, and realizes a beat too late that he’d actually said that part  _ out loud. _ “Am I-- I’m a bad boss, aren’t I?”

She blinks. “You’re not a bad boss, Jon. I mean-- well, you’re a bit too harsh on Martin sometimes, honestly, but that’s not why I want to leave.” 

“Then why?” 

_ “I _ wanted to be the boss.” 

Jon stops. Sasha looks a bit taken aback, like she hadn’t meant to admit that, but then she shrugs on and continues. 

“I would want to quit even if Tim had been promoted to Head Archivist instead, or Martin, or anyone else. I wanted the job. I thought I was going to get it. I was the most senior member of the Research department, I’d let Elias know that I was interested in the position-- and yet I didn’t get it. The last Head Archivist kept the job until she  _ died.  _ There’s not a whole lot of upwards mobility at the Institute. I don’t think that I’m going to get another chance to rise in the ranks where I am, so… I’ve been looking for other jobs.” 

“I… don’t know why I’m so surprised,” he says. “That you wanted it. I-- when Elias told me that he wanted to promote me, the first thing that went through my head was that it should be you in there, not me. I was shocked.” 

She grins at that, wry but sincere. “Well, that does make me feel a little bit better, that you agree with me.” 

He fidgets, wishing that he had something to hold and fiddle with right now. He resists the urge to ask Sasha for a cigarette. 

“I… perhaps I could… ask Elias if he wants to reconsider who would be best for the position? I-- I’ve only been Head Archivist for a few months now, surely it won’t be too much of a hassle to switch some things around--” 

“Jon,” Sasha says, eyes wide. “Are you being serious right now?” 

“Well,” he says. “We both agree that you seem like a better fit for the position, don’t we?” 

“I didn’t say that, actually,” she says. “I just said that I wanted the position. That I was hoping for it. You don’t-- it’s not like you don’t fit, Jon. I was just… disappointed.” 

“But if you receive the Head Archivist position, you’ll stay, won’t you?” he asks. 

He’d rather be an archival assistant with Sasha as the Head Archivist, than to be the Head Archivist himself with Sasha no longer there at all. He doesn’t mind that idea at all, in fact. He’d been… yes, he’d been proud once the shock wore off, when Elias offered him the position. But he’d never thought to expect it. Giving it up won’t be that much of a sacrifice. It’s always just been something that was unexpectedly granted to him. 

Sasha’s face is doing something that’s hard to articulate, now. It’s… softened at the edges somehow, and she’s looking at him very intently. 

“You don’t have to do that,” she says quietly. 

“I don’t mind,” he says. 

“I know. But you really don’t have to, Jon. I’ve been looking for another job for months now, and it’s been so much harder than I thought that it’d be. Most official academic jobs are  _ not _ focused on the supernatural, did you know that? The best I could find is the Usher foundation in America. I am  _ not  _ moving to  _ America. _ Absolutely not. The closest I can find is… podcasts and youtube channels about hunting ghosts or debunking myths or whatever. Those don’t pay well, to put it mildly. And it’s not exactly what I had in mind. And now, in there-- no one took me seriously, at all. No one takes supernatural research seriously, even though it’s  _ real. _ I just… this is what I want to be doing. What we do at the Magnus Institute. Just--  _ more.”  _

She motions emphatically with her hands as she talks, emotion and intensity clear in every single syllable. She looks like the most deeply frustrated woman he’s ever seen. 

“You’re… giving up?” he asks. 

She grimaces. “I hate that. I’m not _ giving up, _ just… there’s literally nothing better out there. So, you don’t have to surrender your job to me just to keep me around, Jon.” There’s a treacherous, guilty leap of relief in his heart at hearing her say that she’s going to stay. She smiles at him, looking terribly fond for a moment. “But it’s sweet that you offered. And _ completely  _ ridiculous.” 

“I-- I mean, even if you’re staying anyways I could, that is, we could--” he says, because it  _ is _ a shame that Sasha’s staying simply because she can’t find anything better, that he was surprised with a promotion that she had, apparently, been deeply and desperately wanting. Shouldn’t it go to the person who wants it the most? She’s so-- so smart, so passionate. He can see her as the Head Archivist. He’s sure that she’d be wonderful. 

She shuts him up with a little shove to his shoulder. “Stop it. I’m not guilting you out of your job, you unbelievable man.” 

He opens his mouth, and she gives him a Look. He closes it. He thinks it over. 

“Well,” he says eventually. “I could at least… that is, I’d appreciate any advice or suggestions you may have in how to run the Archives? Because, to be entirely honest, I’m… not entirely prepared for all of this.” 

“You know,” she says dryly, “I’d sort of noticed.” 

He winces. “Have I been that incompetent?” 

“Not incompetent. Just…  _ really _ tense.” 

“Ah.” 

“Yeah. But… that sounds very neat, actually.” 

“G-- good, I’m glad. I’m… very glad. I hope it will help you with…”  _ that it will make you stop wanting to leave. _ “That it will make you feel more satisfied with your work.” 

“I bet it will.” 

She smiles at him. He smiles back, feeling as if he’s just narrowly dodged out of the way of a speeding car. Ecstatic, relieved, light, with aftershocks of terror from the sudden and unexpected harrowing situation that had lasted for only a few moments. 

Her lipstick is red, he notices. It matches her dress perfectly. It’s just like Sasha to pay attention to a small detail like that. He’s always appreciated that about her. 

He clears his throat and looks away, because they really have just been sitting in silence and smiling at each other for a bit now, and why is he noticing her _ lipstick? _ That can’t be appropriate. 

“Well,” he says awkwardly, and then gestures behind him at the building behind them. “I suppose that the reason you were so eager to come here is because you were looking forward to the opportunity to network, then.” 

Sasha groans. “I hate networking. Having to  _ make friends _ to help you find a new job-- it’s the worst system on earth.” 

“I agree  _ completely. _ But, what I’m getting at is, Elias informed me that I shouldn’t just… sneak off and disappear like I did at the holiday party. I do have to go back in there. And you don’t have a reason to be here any longer, so… If you want to just go home now then that would probably be fine, I think. If anyone asks where you went, I can say that you had a family emergency or something like that to take care of.” 

“And leave you alone in there? With those elitist pricks? Absolutely not.” She stands up, and holds a hand out for him. “Come on. Let’s just get through this, together.” 

He takes her hand, lets her pull him up to his feet. Her hand is warm, soft. She keeps a bottle of hand moisturizer on her desk as a matter of habit. 

“I really do owe you a favor for this,” he says. 

“Nah,” she says. “We’re friends, aren’t we? And I don’t think that it’s going to be  _ that  _ bad. I’ve officially given up on trying to schmooze these guys for a job, which means that I get to be rude right back at them.” 

“Oh,” he says, and he smiles. “I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“Yes, well, that’s why you have me. You have a real talent for telling people that they’re wrong, you know. I’ve always admired it. This is going to be  _ fun.”  _

She tugs him towards the door back into the building, and he follows, linking his arm through hers. She needs the help with her heels, after all. 

Something warm and pleased bubbles inside his chest, but he doesn’t pay it much mind. 


	3. Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning in the end notes

“A--and so, while the new tagging system may not be useful for the general public, I think that it will help the efficiency of the Archival staff itself as we get the Archives back into order a great deal, so it could perhaps just be put to internal use--” Jon rattles off his rehearsed speech, trying to sound as confident and certain as he can manage, to preemptively counter every single argument Elias may think to raise. He doesn’t want for Elias to tell him that this system is a waste of time and resources. It was Sasha’s idea, her first big one since he’d asked her for her input and advice, and he wants for it to succeed quite badly. And not just because it really would be genuinely useful to have. 

“Are you aware of how we acquire the funds to run this Institute?” Elias asks, interrupting him. 

“The system really won’t cost us any money,” he says. “Sasha says that she can set it all up herself. It’s a fairly simple program, apparently, and will for the most part just need time and effort to get--” 

“Jon,” Elias says flatly, and Jon makes himself click his teeth shut, cutting off any further, well, _ rambling. _ Elias waits a moment to see whether or not he’ll go on. He doesn’t. Satisfied, Elias continues. “I didn’t ask you whether or not this new idea will cost us money. I asked if you know how we acquire funds to run this Institute. Do you? I know that you’ve never been directly involved in the efforts before, at least.” 

“It, ah,” he says, and takes a moment to recalibrate. He’d been so ready to defend Sasha’s idea, to argue for it, that he’s not prepared to do anything else at all. It feels like someone pulled him away from solving complex mathematical formulas and demanded that he go and write a poem instead, with no time to wrap his head around the new task. Not that he’s all that good at either of those things, but. It’s just an example. “We receive donations?” 

“That is correct,” Elias says. “We are a non profit organization. Nothing we do at any point earns us any coin. Statement givers don’t have to pay a fee for the privilege to tell us about their supernatural encounter. Students, researchers, academics, and the merely curious alike don’t have to give us money for the opportunity to read in our library, or to consult any of our files. Some books, files, and parts of the building are restricted, of course, either for the privacy of the people involved in Statements or various ongoing cases, or for the safety of the public. I don’t like to think of what would happen if we let just anyone wander into Artefact Storage.” 

“... Yes?” he says. He doesn’t really understand how this is relevant to what they were discussing. Is Elias about to float the idea that maybe they should consider opening up a gift shop? Sell little keychains with ghosts on them? God, he hopes not. 

“So we rely _ entirely _ on the donations we receive,” he goes on. “We have nothing else to supplement our income. The continued survival of the Magnus Institute, an institution that has stood for hundreds of years now, depends upon the generosity and whims of other people’s pockets. Given that, we can’t exactly just idly stand aside and hope that they’ll remember us and write us out a check now and then. We have to remind them that we exist. We have to charm them, convince them,  _ ask.  _ Who do you think we get the most money from?” 

“I… supernatural enthusiasts?” He feels like a bit of a fool as he says it, a blind guess. But he never has been involved in the issue of raising funds for the Institute before. He has no idea, and he suddenly feels like he should. This is something that he should know. 

“No. The supernatural enthusiast community is rather split when it comes to their opinion of us. And most of them aren’t exactly swimming in money either. The majority of our funds come from _ rich eccentrics. _ People who see us as an interesting novelty, and can easily part with a few thousand, or even more, pounds for an idle interest.” 

“I see,” Jon says. 

“And how do you suppose that we capture the attention of flighty, self absorbed, out of touch rich eccentrics?” Elias asks. 

“We-- we visit them,” he says. It’s another blind guess, but he tries to say it with more certainty than he’s spoken with thus far. 

“Not quite. That makes us look rather desperate, and there’s nothing the rich dislike more than people making it _ obvious _ that they want them for nothing more than their money. We make them come to us. We make them enjoy themselves. We throw a donor party.” 

“A-- _ Elias.”  _

“The first thing you always ask me when I tell you that you have to attend a function on behalf of the Institute is always  _ why. _ So I thought that I’d get ahead of you and give you a thorough explanation of just how important this is.” 

“Why  _ me? _ ” 

“Oh, the second question you always ask. Because you’re a department head, Jon. And before you ask, yes, all of the other department heads will be attending as well, so you have no need to sound so persecuted. It’s going to be held here, in the Institute, so it’s not like you’ll be going all the way to Chelsea this time.” 

“I--” 

_ “Speaking _ of Chelsea,” Elias says, and something in his tone makes Jon go still for a moment. “You know, I received some peculiar emails after that night. Heard some rumours. Apparently, you and Sasha got into some  _ heated  _ debates at that gala, to put it mildly. One man, a respected professor with tenure, _ quit his job _ the week afterwards with not a word of explanation. Tell me, is it true that you accused a man of having falsified his PhD with crayon?” 

“That is-- he  _ started _ it,” he says, and winces almost immediately afterwards. What a terribly childish thing to say. But it’s true. Had he just been supposed to stand there and grin and bear it as people oh so politely insinuated and implied things about him, right to his face? It had been impossible to ignore after Sasha pointed it out to him. Most of them seemed to be convinced that he hadn’t graduated, or even  _ attended,  _ university. Because god forbid a man with a degree would be interested in seeking out the job he has. 

“I don’t doubt it,” Elias says, and Jon blinks at the unexpected agreement. “Functions like that with the wider academic circle is often an exercise in self restraint. We’re not…  _ well regarded. _ That’s _ their  _ shortcoming. Regardless, you can’t insult a woman’s work ethic to the point that she throws a drink in your face, Jon. You are representing the Magnus Institute when you attend those sorts of events.” 

The woman with the drink, yes. He hadn’t even been particularly upset about that one, as Sasha had gleefully seen it as a permission to throw _ her _ drink at said woman, and then also Jon’s, and then also the drink of the closest shocked man who hadn’t been guarding his drink carefully enough. By the end, the woman who started it had been much more drenched than he. 

Sasha is a remarkably efficient woman. She doesn’t hesitate. 

“Yes, Elias,” he says. Elias hadn’t mentioned a single thing about Jon’s behaviour at the gala the next time he’d seen him, in either a positive or a negative way. It hadn’t been mentioned at all, in fact. Jon had optimistically taken it as confirmation that Elias didn’t know anything about his behaviour at the gala. After all, why would he? It’s not like he was there himself, and after the way Jon was treated there, he somehow doubts that Elias is on friendly speaking terms with any of those people. 

His mistake, apparently. He’d thought the same thing about the holiday party, after all. That Elias hadn’t noticed him sneaking out early, simply because he hadn’t mentioned it the very next time he saw him, or even for months afterwards. He’d instead quietly and patiently held it in reserve, to be mentioned the next time he needed Jon to attend something else dreadful. 

Perhaps someone had phoned him with complaints, he thinks with something between amusement and embarrassment. Is this what children who have been caught doing a cruel prank that they’re rather proud of feel like? 

“So, having impressed upon you just how  _ important _ it is that we acquire as many hefty donations as possible at this event, I hope that you’ll keep that in mind and bite your tongue this time. The rich can be rather… tactless. Some of them have never had to learn before, thanks to their fortunes.” 

Jon translates that in his head. _ Don’t be rude this time, or else you’ll cost us  _ money _ instead of just our already tattered reputation.  _

“I’ll be more  _ lovely,” _ he makes himself promise long sufferingly. 

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” Elias says, sounding for all the world like he’s telling the truth. He makes a vague hand motion for Jon to start gathering his things from the side of Elias’ desk that he’s claimed for his own for this meeting. “Oh, and the usual stipulations apply of course. Dress well, bring a plus one, you know the drill.” 

“Of course,” he says dryly. He gathers his things, and he only just remembers himself before he leaves. “Oh-- about the new system, Elias--” 

Elias only dismissively waves one hand in his direction, not even looking away from the ledger he has open on his desk. “Yes, yes. So long as it doesn’t take anything out of the budget and you don’t believe that it will be too much of a burden on your assistants, I see no reason to warn you away from it. I trust your judgement, Jon.” 

Something in his shoulders loosen, and something warm glows a bit inside of his chest. Sasha’s program is being given a chance.  _ I trust your judgement, Jon.  _

It almost makes up for the fact that he is apparently going to have to attend yet another one of these awful, _ terrible _ parties. At least he has two people that he knows he can rely on to come with him to choose from, this time. 

The first thing Jon does after he finishes reading the Statement is to give a few closing words to the recorder. A comment on how distasteful it was, a remark on just how skeptical he is of the Statement giver’s trustworthiness, and he tries to wrap it up. He can’t quite help voicing one niggling, uncomfortable detail that had stood out to him… and then he remembers himself, and he shuts the recorder off. The almost imperceptible, and yet somehow pervasive and impossible to ignore, sound of the recorder vanishes. The equally almost-but-not-quite imperceptible sensation of being relentlessly watched vanishes as well, as if all that is needed to banish it is to depress one button. He lets out a shaky breath as it goes away, running a hand through his hair. 

It does always go away once he’s done recording, doesn’t it? He’d considered that maybe the  _ recorder  _ was somehow haunted, but he’d replaced it and ran into the same problem with the new one anyways. So it must be something else. 

Or it’s just all in his head. 

He finishes taking slow, measured breaths. He finds some paper, and writes down all of the tags that he can think of. The given name of the Statement giver, every single other person mentioned, the location. Hesitantly, he also writes down ‘meat.’ It had been… a heavy theme in the Statement. He’s noticed it coming up, here and there. But perhaps it’s nothing. 

The tags were Sasha’s idea. Her new system, the program. They keep running into the issue of Statements or notes that reference people or events or locations that aren’t included in the Statement itself, devoid of all context. This new system is supposed to help smooth that little problem over in time. Each file, each Statement, has its own serial number. Sasha is writing a program that contains all of those numbers, along with a list of tags tacked onto each of them that they’ve already tackled. Now if he, for example, wants to quickly find every single Statement regarding a Leitner that they’ve already gone through, he can theoretically type that into the program, and every serial number with the ‘Leitner’ tag attached to it will show up. 

It’s not exactly very… proper? Official? Traditional? But it _ is  _ helpful. Or it will start to be, once they get a sizable number of Statements filed into Sasha’s program. The ‘problem’ Statements still refuse to be downloaded onto anything as advanced as a laptop, either in written or audio form, but at least this will help them track the relevant moldering, yellowed files down faster. 

It is strange, how certain names keep reappearing in different Statements. The new program has helped make certain trends a bit more obvious. 

He finishes writing down any key words that he can think of for Sasha to include, and attaches the page to the rest of the file with a paperclip, setting it aside for now. He sips some tea from his favored mug. He grimaces, and sets it back down. It’s gone lukewarm at some point. This is the third time that he’s tried to drink from the mug and recoiled, now that he thinks about it. He’d best just go and pour it out and be done with the vicious cycle already. 

In just a moment. He just has to do one more thing-- 

On his desk, his phone vibrates with a text message. He turns it over, and is surprised to see that it  _ isn’t _ some sort of spam. It’s from Tim. It says-- 

Jon stares for a moment, and then before he has time to think it over, he dials Tim’s phone immediately. 

_ “Jesus,” _ is the first thing Tim says.  _ “I hope you know how terrifying it was to see my phone just  _ instantly _ start ringing the second after I tell you that I can’t come with you to the donor thing.”  _

“Why can’t you come?” he blurts out. 

_ “Look, man, I’m sorry. My dad just had a heart attack.”  _

“What!?” 

_ “And survived! He’s still alive, to be clear! But you know, I should, like, visit. Right? We don’t really talk much anymore because of… Well, I should go and see my old man when he has a heart attack, at least. Just for a quick weekend trip, but I’m gonna miss your thing. I’m really sorry to ditch you at the last minute like this--”  _

“N-- no, don’t apologize,” he hurries to say, blinking rapidly as he tries to process this. Good lord, he’d just called Tim to demand an explanation for him cancelling on him when his father has been  _ hospitalized. _ This is about ten times worse than that time he asked the girl who sat next to him in English class if she was ill the one time she came to school without makeup. “Of course, take your time, I’m sorry for bothering you. I-- it’s no inconvenience, I can simply ask Sasha instead.” 

_ “I thought you didn’t want to ask Sasha because she’s definitely gonna start something,” _ Tim says, sounding more amused than gravely offended, Jon is relieved to note. 

“She doesn’t start things, she simply finishes them,” he says, feeling obligated to defend her. “Thoroughly. And I’m sure that she can keep a hold of herself, I just thought that you’d be the more  _ diplomatic _ choice.” 

That, and there is a certain charm to the logic of alternating who he takes to a function. Tim, then Sasha, then Tim, then Sasha. Simple, logical. Switching who he takes like that firmly shows that he isn’t favoring one assistant over the other. No need to fill out any HR forms at all, or for anyone to gossip. 

_ “That’s one way of putting it. Hey, how about Martin?”  _

Jon blinks. “What  _ about _ Martin?” 

_ “Bring him! He’s diplomatic, isn’t he? I can’t really see him starting a huge argument with someone in the middle of a party, so he’s perfect. And he still hasn’t had the honor of being on your arm for one of these shindigs yet, has he?”  _

He makes a noise of incredulous indignation at that. Martin’s-- Martin’s  _ fine,  _ he supposes, when one doesn’t take his work ethic into account. But he doesn’t particularly want to spend an entire evening listening to him nervously natter on about something meaningless, stuck helplessly to his side. 

“I’ll ask Sasha,” he says firmly. And then, more softly, awkwardly, “I-- I hope your father is well, Tim.” 

_ “He is, don’t worry. Stable condition and everything. I should just go and say hi, that’s all.”  _

“Right,” he says. He wonders why Tim doesn’t speak much to his father any longer. He makes himself not ask. He’s been tactless enough for one conversation as it is. “Well, goodbye, then.” 

_ “Cheers!”  _

The call ends. Jon looks at his phone screen until it dims and goes black and reflective. He notices that he missed a spot while shaving this morning. He sets his phone down. Takes a sip of his tea. 

_ “Ugh,” _ he says, grimacing as he swallows down the room temperature tea. “Right, that’s it.” 

He stands up and gets out of his office, carrying the offensive mug of tea with him. He marches straight to the kitchenette and vindictively pours it down the sink. He rinses out the mug, carefully places it in the ancient little dishwasher, and goes back into his office. As he goes, he notes the empty desks. Both Tim and Sasha have gone home for the day, only Martin still lingering at his desk, his eyes shooting up to briefly glance at Jon as he walks by. That means that it’s getting to be late, as neither Tim or Sasha are slackers, but not  _ particularly _ late, as Martin isn’t the type to burn the midnight oil either. He’s doing fine, then. He’s not being unreasonable at all. 

It is a bit rare for Martin to be the last of the assistants still at work, but it does happen on occasion. He puts it out of his mind and settles back in at his desk to get back to work. Hesitating, he picks up his phone instead. He should ask Sasha sooner rather than later, considering how last minute this invitation is going to be. The donor party is on  _ Sunday, _ only two days away. 

He wonders if she’s going to wear that bright red lipstick again. 

He realizes what he’s thinking about, flushing and sheepish. He shakes his head to rid himself of the ridiculous idle thought, and texts Sasha. Surprisingly, she responds back in less than a minute. 

The following conversation goes basically like this: he asks her. She demands to know why Tim isn’t taking him, wasn’t Tim going to take him? Is she going to have to have a stern word with him? He assures her that Tim had a perfectly good reason for not going with him, unsure if Tim would want for him to divulge that his father has had a medical emergency. Sasha conveys skepticism, Jon reassures her. Sasha accuses him of being cagey and hiding something due to the fact that he won’t spell out why exactly Tim won’t be going with him. Jon tries to defend Tim’s honor, and in a desperate last bid as a distraction asks Sasha again if she can go with him or not. Sasha doesn’t reply for several minutes, and then reluctantly explains that no, she can’t actually go with him because she’s already arranged other plans for the weekend, having assumed that Tim had everything in hand. 

Jon puts his face in his hands in defeat. His phone buzzes with incoming texts for a while, and he gives himself just a moment to ignore them. Eventually, the phone outright rings however. Tim had been right; it  _ does _ feel strangely confrontational to have it suddenly ring. 

_ “Jon, I  _ can  _ cancel if you really--” _ is the first thing she says after he picks it up. 

“No,” he says automatically. “No, no, it’s alright. You don’t have to go out of your way like that. I can figure something else out.” 

_ “Are you sure?”  _

“Yes,” he says, even though he in fact is sure of no such thing. But he can feel his own conviction as he says it. It doesn’t matter if he has zero other plans, with both Tim and Sasha crossed off the list. He just knows that he doesn’t want for Sasha to have to cancel her plans for him, and he  _ certainly  _ doesn’t want for Tim to not go and visit his ill father. He’s not this pitiful, this pathetic; he refuses to be. He’s not going to be a  _ burden _ on them. He’s going to figure this out. 

_ “... Well, alright. If you’re sure, then.”  _

“I am,” he says as firmly as he can manage. “I’m not _ helpless,  _ you know.” 

_ “Yes, _ sir.” 

He huffs indignantly at her. She laughs in response. 

_ “Sorry to heartlessly reject you,” _ she says cheerfully.  _ “Don’t stay at work too late.”  _

“Maybe I’m not at work,” he says. “You can’t know that for sure.” 

_ “You’re  _ very  _ funny. Bye!”  _

He sighs. That had been a bit of a stretch, hadn’t it? “Goodbye.” 

He hangs up. He looks down at his desk. It’s Friday evening. He has two days to find a new date. 

What now? 

There’s a knock on his door, and he answers entirely on reflex, “Come in.” 

It’s Martin, of course. Everyone else is gone for the day. Jon wonders if Martin’s here to let him know that he’s leaving for the day, as if he isn’t an adult, as if it isn’t almost two hours after his mandated work hours, as if it’s at all necessary. He  _ knows _ that it isn’t. He’s probably just using it as an excuse to try and nag Jon into leaving too, interrupting him just because-- 

Martin holds up a mug of tea, steam gently wafting from the top. 

“I saw you pour your last one out,” he explains, “so I thought that I’d make you a new one. It had gone cold, right?” 

“R-- right,” he says. Martin comes in to set the mug down on his desk, and he shakes his head at himself. There’s no need to be surprised by  _ Martin  _ fetching him some  _ tea.  _ He always makes everyone at least a round each day, saying that he might as well when he’s already making himself a cup. 

He picks up the mug and takes a sip to wash out the taste of the earlier gone tepid tea from his mouth. He sighs a little with satisfaction as he does.  _ Much _ better. Incredible how much a little change like temperature can change the quality of something. 

He looks up when he realizes that Martin hasn’t left yet, for some reason. He’s still standing by Jon’s desk, looking down at him and-- smiling. 

Jon goes still at the sight of it. Martin smiles often, almost compulsively sometimes, he’s thought derisively in the past. But this is different somehow-- 

Martin starts, as if belatedly realizing that yes, Jon is in fact looking directly at him and can see him perfectly well too. 

“Oh! Um, sorry for staring, I’m just-- just getting kind of tired I guess, heh. Spacing out. ‘Scuse me.” 

_ Hey, how about Martin?  _

“Wait,” he says. 

Martin stops from scurrying out of Jon’s office like a spooked oversized mouse, looking over at him curiously. “Yes?” 

He opens his mouth to, what,  _ ask Martin on a date?  _ He closes his mouth and bites his tongue almost hard enough for it to bleed, letting the regret and embarrassment wash over him. He shouldn’t have let Tim put such a terrible idea into his head. How could he possibly ask Martin? Absolutely not. Except now he’s asked him to stay, and he has nothing to say, and Martin is waiting and he probably looks  _ absurd.  _

He has to think of something to say. 

“Why are you still here?” he asks him, and Martin blinks rapidly. Jon winces slightly as he realizes how brusque he’d just sounded. “I mean-- you don’t often work this late.” 

“W--well,” Martin says, “you, um, you said that you wanted the follow up on the Goldenstein statement on your desk by Monday? And it’s still not done, so--” 

“It’s still not ready?” he asks, and doesn’t quite manage to catch how sharp and incredulous he sounds until the words are already out and then, well, he can’t apologize for that, can he? Besides, he’s right. He’d gone out of his way to give Martin a generous deadline on that one, he  _ had.  _

“I-- it’s nothing but dead ends! It’s not my fault that it’s  _ thirty years old _ and everyone involved is either dead or moved far away or have married and changed their last names or--” 

Jon opens his mouth to cut him off, interrupt him, tell him to stop wasting his time with excuses-- and for some reason he remembers Sasha telling him that she wished sometimes that he wouldn’t be so harsh on Martin. It was the one complaint she’d made about him. 

“--moved to China! And won’t answer  _ any _ of my emails, or phone calls, or letters. I sent  _ letters,  _ Jon--” 

He puts up a hand in the universal signal for _ stop talking. _ Martin bites himself off into flush faced silence, looking upset and like he very much wants to keep defending himself. 

“Fine,” is what he ends up saying. “It’s… not the deadline yet anyways, that’s tomorrow. I have nothing to complain about.” Yet. “And you don’t have to solve the whole case either. You just have to dig up as much information as you can reasonably manage. Follow up on all of the threads that people in the past didn’t think to try, see if any new developments have occurred in the passing years.” 

Martin doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just standing there and looking at Jon like he’s done something entirely unexpected. 

“... Martin?” he has to eventually prompt. 

Martin jumps a bit, and then says, “Right, yes. Okay. Got-- got it.” 

Jon wonders if he should feel offended or guilty over just how surprised Martin seems to be about  _ not _ receiving a scolding. 

“I’ll just… take some stuff with me home and work on it a bit over the weekend, I think,” Martin goes on. “Wrap it up on Saturday.” 

Jon thins his lips as the feeling in his chest starts to tilt more decisively towards guilt. He can’t remember the last time he hadn’t taken some work home himself, and lately he’s started bringing  _ himself _ to work during the weekend instead. But… he probably shouldn’t be making his assistants do that as well. He’s aware that the way he lives is… not exactly the norm. Not what most people would be content with. 

“Never mind,” Jon says. “The deadline can be pushed back to… Wednesday, I suppose. You don’t have to work on it over the weekend.” 

“Oh,” Martin says. 

_ I mean-- well, you’re a bit too harsh on Martin sometimes, honestly.  _

Jon huffs uncomfortably and pointedly turns his chair away, back towards his desk, his work. He picks a paper up and pretends to read it, waiting to hear Martin’s retreating footsteps, the door shutting behind him. It doesn’t come. Eventually, his nerves fray and he looks up again, feeling annoyed and flustered. 

Martin’s looking at him again. Smiling at him again. In that strange way that had made Jon freeze up with surprise before, like a deer in headlights. It’s not a nervous smile, or a polite or friendly one. It’s--  _ warm. _ Entirely too warm to be directed at  _ Jon.  _

“Was there something else that you needed?” he asks sharply, and Martin doesn’t even have the grace to stop smiling at him, the bastard. He wishes he would. At least _ that  _ smile. It makes him feel… far too aware of himself. Or something. 

“No,” Martin says. “Just-- don’t work too late, Jon. Yeah?” 

“I won’t,” is the automatic reply, something he says less out of sincerity and more to just get Martin to let it go. He thinks that maybe Martin knows, by the way his warm smile goes a little crooked and exasperated as he huffs a bit out of his nose, but he doesn’t try to argue it any further, which is the point of it. 

“Okay,” Martin says. “Night, then.” 

“Goodnight, Martin.” He turns back to his work to signal that yes, the conversation _ is _ over now. Thankfully, this time Martin seems to agree with him, because he hears his footsteps exit the room, back out into the wider office. He’ll be gathering his things and preparing to leave now, since Jon had let him know that the file wouldn’t be expected until at least Wednesday. Good. That means that he’ll at least be able to focus on his work again. No distractions. 

But he just stares blankly at the words on his desk instead. 

He still doesn’t have anyone to bring with him to the donor party. 

_ Hey, how about Martin?  _

He’s not bringing Martin. That’s-- it’s just-- it won’t work. It’s ridiculous. Inappropriate. He’s Jon’s assistant, after all. Sure, Tim and Sasha are his assistants as well, and he’d brought them, but it’s-- it’s _ different. _ He’d known them before he became their boss, after all. So there’s just-- it’s not the same. At all. 

He still doesn’t have anyone. He could show up alone, he supposes. 

After having snuck out of the holiday party after only twenty minutes. After being deliberately rude and confrontational at the gala. 

He stands up quickly enough that it sends his office chair spinning, and he walks out of his office into the larger part of the Archives, where all of the assistants desks are set out in a little clearing bordered by walls or kitchenette or shelves. Martin’s desk is empty, his coat gone from the rack by the door leading to the stairs going up. He’s too late. He’s already left. 

Without thinking about it, he walks--no, he  _ runs-- _ out of said door, up the stairs, through the lobby, throwing open the door leading out of the main entrance, down the steps to the sidewalk, and he looks-- there. His yellow jacket stands out brightly in the dim light of evening, walking away. 

“Martin!” he calls out. 

Martin turns around, and even with about a dozen feet between them Jon can see his eyebrows climb up his forehead. 

“Jon!?” he says. He walks towards Jon, his breath pluming a bit in the air. It’s a chilly night. Jon didn’t put his jacket on before storming out here, wearing nothing but his sweater vest and button up. “What is it? Did-- did I forget something?” 

His hand twitches like he wants to start rooting through his brown messenger bag to see which vital item he’s apparently left behind that made Jon chase after him. What Jon’s doing catches up with him all at once, and the urge to sprint into the nearest alleyway out of sight and curl up with mortification is almost overpowering. God, what is he  _ doing?  _

“You-- you didn’t, ah, you didn’t forget anything,” he says, desperately wishing that he had, that Jon was running after him to hand him his phone or his wallet or his keys or his  _ inhaler _ or his life saving medicine that he absolutely could not be parted from. At least then he’d have a decent reason for doing something so overdramatic. He curls his hands up, nails driving into the meat of his palms, and forces himself to just go through with this. If running after Martin like this makes him look strange, then telling him that it was nothing after all and turning back without explaining himself would make him look like a _ maniac. _ “I forgot something, in fact.” 

“... You did?” It’s a prompting sort of question, quietly asking for him to go on, to tell him what’s wrong. 

“There’s a fundraising function this Sunday, and I need a plus one,” he blurts out. “It’s mandatory for me to go, and mandatory for me to bring someone with me, god only knows why.” 

The eyebrows are climbing back up. “I see,” Martin says thinly. “And why, um, why are you telling me this?” 

He’s either being utterly daft to need it further spelled out for him, or he’s being deliberately cruel in forcing Jon to actually having to say the words. Martin is a lot of things, but he can grant that ‘cruel’ isn’t one of them. So, daft it is. 

“Well,” he says. “I-- I don’t know if you noticed, but I brought Tim with me to the holiday party, and Sasha with me to the Chelsea gala, so-- well, it’s only logical isn’t it? It’s-- it should be your turn now.” 

Martin’s mouth falls open a bit, but there’s a sort of immediate shame and regret sparking off in Jon’s chest at what he’s said, the way he phrased it. It’s one thing to ask his assistant to attend a party with him, but implying that it’s a _ work obligation _ that he  _ has  _ to perform-- it’s questionable at best. It’s just that phrasing it as something they both just have to do for their jobs makes it feel… impersonal. Safe. It doesn’t reflect on Jon in any way, doesn’t imply anything at all. It’s just work. 

But Jon is the only one who has to do anything here. He shouldn’t mislead Martin into thinking otherwise. 

“I mean,” he says, cutting Martin off before he can say anything. “That is to say, you don’t _ have _ to come with me. I’m the only one who has to go. I asked both Tim and Sasha, but they’re both unavailable this weekend. So-- you can say no, if you want to.” 

“Oh,” Martin says, and Jon can’t read the look on his face. “Yeah that-- that makes more sense.” 

Jon waits for Martin to give him a proper answer, and tries not to fidget or shake him by the shoulders to make a yes or no rattle out of him like a stubborn candy bar from a vending machine. Now that he’s actually asked Martin to go with him, the only thing that he can imagine that could possibly make this worse is if Martin says  _ no.  _ He very much doesn’t want for him to say no. 

He would have no options left for the party, for one thing. Also, he would have to live with the fact that he’s been rejected by Martin Blackwood, then. He doesn’t really know how he’d manage to look him in the eye afterwards, in that case. 

The silence stretches on, and Jon becomes increasingly convinced that Martin’s just searching for the right words to gently let him down. Why would he say yes, after all? Jon has it on good record that he is  _ too harsh _ on him, and he’s starting to suspect that that may in fact be the truth. If Jon were in his position-- 

“Okay,” Martin says, interrupting the snarled tangle that Jon’s thoughts are progressively turning into with each passing silent second. 

“Okay?” he repeats dumbly. 

“Yeah-- yes. Sure. I-- I’ll go with you,” he says, an octave higher than his voice should be. The cold is leaving his cheeks pink and ruddy. “When-- when’s the time, then?” 

“I’ll send you a message with the details,” he says, despite the disbelief that still clings to him. He hadn’t misheard or misunderstood, then. 

He never thought that he’d be this relieved to know that he’s going to be spending an evening in Martin’s company. 

“See you on Sunday, then,” Martin says, gripping the strap of his messenger bag like he thinks someone’s about to try and grab it from him. 

“Yes,” Jon agrees, and becomes aware of how cold his fingers have gotten at this point, the tips of his ears. At least it isn’t raining. “I’ll be seeing you.” 

And he retreats back into the building, before he says something utterly inane. Such as thanking him for saying yes. 

“Jon? Are you seriously doing _ work?”  _

“Hm?” he hums absentmindedly, looks up, and then remembers himself with a start as he sees that Martin isn’t wearing some pastel or soft earth tone jumper, but a decent suit. It feels strangely bizarre to see him dressed like that, in such an otherwise perfectly familiar scene, standing in the doorway of Jon’s office. 

“It’s _ Sunday,” _ Martin says. 

This is far from the first Sunday that Jon has worked in his office, but he decides to diplomatically not bring that up. 

“Well, I was just-- I needed something to do while I was waiting for you,” he says, managing to dredge up some indignation towards the last half of the sentence, trying to cover up the guilty defensive tones of someone having been spotted doing something that they’re not supposed to do. Which, honestly, is ridiculous. He’s Martin’s  _ boss. _ And he’s doing work! What’s wrong with that? It’s  _ productive _ to be able to get some extra work done. 

“I’m five minutes early,” Martin points out accusingly. 

Alright, so he may have shown up a fairly cautious amount of time early, but only because he didn’t want to risk being late. 

Also maybe a little bit because he wanted to take the opportunity to get some more work done. Just while he’s already in the building and everything. It seems a frustrating waste to come all the way over here and then _ not  _ do anything useful. 

He will not be informing Elias that he thinks his presence here is entirely useless but, well. He hardly thinks that  _ he’s _ going to be the deciding factor that manages to charm someone into donating instead of not. If he’s lucky, he’ll manage to avoid actively dissuading anyone from doing so in the first place. 

“Yes, well,” he says, and doesn’t really know how to continue. He scrambles for the words as Martin raises his eyebrows at him. “I was-- it doesn’t matter. Is that a new suit?” 

He doesn’t throw out that last question so much because he’s genuinely curious but because it seems like a serviceable distraction. 

“You can tell?” Martin asks, one hand immediately going to smooth down the jacket self consciously. “I-- I bought it  _ used.”  _

“Oh-- I just-- it’s the first time that I’ve ever seen you in it, is all.” Now that Martin has pointed it out, it does look a touch faded and frayed at the edges, like it’s been through the wash one too many times. But it looks perfectly fine to his eye. 

“It’s not like I get a lot of opportunities to wear nice clothes,” he says. “The last time was when I was job hunting, going to interviews-- and well, um, I’ve worked here for a while now. It didn’t quite…. fit, any longer.” 

Martin is fiddling with the edge of one sleeve like he’s suddenly embarrassed. Jon hadn’t meant to make that happen. 

“I had to buy this suit for the gala I went to with Sasha,” he blurts out, wanting for him to just-- stop it, already. Go back to nagging at Jon for doing work on a Sunday. That hadn’t made him feel this strangely uncomfortable, at least. “This will be the second time it’s seeing use.” 

Martin gives him a surprised look. Apparently, Jon is the sort of man who should already own a suit for formal occasions, in his eyes. Well, he has no room to be judging Jon on this score. 

“Oh,” he says. “Well. You look really good.” 

Before Jon can find some way to respond to that, Martin startles like his own words have caught up to him all at once. 

“I mean!” he says. “I mean, it-- the  _ suit, _ it’s a really-- a really nice  _ suit. _ Good suit. Yeah. Good-- good color.” 

“Right,” Jon says, and decides not to try and repay the compliment for both of their sakes. Compliments, especially compliments when it comes to physical things, such as clothes or hair or anything else, have never come naturally to him. “Let’s get going, then. I don’t think that you’re allowed to be fashionably late if you’re technically one of the hosts.” 

Martin makes agreeing noises to this, moving so that he isn’t blocking the doorway any longer. Jon catches him moving his glasses away to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment, and he wonders if he has a headache. 

The party isn’t being held in the research department this time. Instead, they go to the library. Presumably, it’s a classier environment. Very much what your average layman would assume an academic institution  _ should  _ look like. Elias apparently isn’t afraid that  _ these  _ guests might spill punch on the books. Or champagne, rather. That’s the first thing that strikes him when they enter the library-- that there’s an actual  _ catering staff _ instead of just a table holding food and drinks. Waiters with trays of tall flutes of glass containing fizzy drinks and hors d’oeuvres politely drift through the mingling crowd. The millionaires are not being forced to do a potluck, shockingly. 

The second thing that he notices is that he hardly recognizes the place. The bookshelves have all been rearranged to create more open space, the desks and chairs gone entirely, and there’s proper decorations as well. There’s a violinist standing in a corner, playing away. It looks like what the Chelsea gala  _ wanted _ to look like. Is that a  _ chandelier?  _ Did Elias rent a damned chandelier? 

“I see that Elias spared no expense,” he says, blinking. How much did he spend on this? It seems counterintuitive to him to break the bank on a _ fundraising _ function. 

“Oh, wow,” Martin agrees, stunned. 

Jon belatedly becomes aware of the fact that the two of them are just standing in the entryway and staring like a couple of shocked peasants who have never been to a ball before, and he straightens self consciously and walks in a fast clip into the room, Martin hurrying to follow after him after a moment. 

The library is a smaller room than the one the gala had been held in, especially with the bookshelves still here, even if they’re tastefully arranged like a set piece to declare  _ we read books, we’re smart, we’re respectable scholars. _ But despite that it reminds him a bit more of the gala than the holiday party. There’s space between each guest, each little cluster of people conversing, no one needing to crowd into each other’s space. This is due to there just simply being less people present. The guest list was curated by quality over quantity, apparently. Or rather, by the size of their wallets, most likely. 

He wonders what he’s supposed to do, here. Just walk up to a stranger and start trying to convince them to donate money to the Institute? That doesn’t sound right. But Elias probably doesn’t want for Jon to just find an out of the way corner to linger in for the rest of the evening, as appealing as it sounds. God, this is going to be an exhausting night, he can already tell. 

“This is, um,” Martin says. Jon looks at him, remembering that he exists, and sees that Martin’s fiddling with his sleeve again, his eyes traveling over the rest of the guests uneasily. “This is a  _ really _ nice party.” 

He says it like that’s not exactly a good thing. Jon tries to follow Martin’s gaze, and sees people wearing subtly sparkling jewelry, beautiful dresses, and clearly expensive suits. When he’d bought this outfit, he’d been vaguely exasperated with himself for spending so much money on something that he’d barely use. Now though, he feels very, very aware of the fact that probably no one here is going to mistake him for one of the donors. 

That thought just makes him stand straighter, lips thinning, as if daring anyone to make a comment. 

“Yes, well,” he says, clipped. “Of course it is. There are a lot of _ unsubstantiated rumours  _ about us, so we have to show them that we’re a perfectly respectable institution.” 

He’d been incredulously thinking to himself about what a waste of money most of this must be only moments ago, but what he’s saying now makes perfect sense. There’s no need for Martin to act like they-- like _ he _ doesn’t belong here. He  _ works  _ here. It’s _ fine. _ Jon wants to snap at him to stop looking so obviously uncomfortable. Some people are _ looking _ at them, he’s fairly certain. 

“Right,” Martin says, still not looking at ease. 

“I see Elias,” Jon says, spotting the man with some amount of relief. Maybe the man might nudge him in the correct direction, whatever that may be. Also, he just suddenly very much doesn’t want to be talking to Martin any longer. Doesn’t want to be seen with him. “I’ll go and say hello to him, pardon me.” 

“Oh-- um, I’ll just wait here then?” he says, looking dismayed to be left to his own devices. 

“Fine,” Jon says. He doesn’t particularly care what Martin does, so long as he doesn’t make a fool of himself. 

He stalks off in Elias’ direction, and he makes himself take a deep breath in and out as he goes. Had he been _ too harsh _ back there? He doesn’t  _ think _ so. He hadn’t snapped, he hadn’t criticized, he hadn’t scolded. He’d gotten angry again, though. But that’s hardly his fault, is it? Martin’s just-- he’s so-- 

“And here he is,” Elias says to the people he’s speaking with, and turns towards Jon with a warm smile. He had been talking about Jon with them, he realizes, and it feels a bit like having a glass of cold water poured down the back of his shirt. It doesn’t have to be bad, necessarily, and why would it be? Elias would be trying to hide that he’d been the topic of conversation if it had been negative, surely? But the reminder that people still remember and know that he exists and have opinions on him and even _ talk  _ about him while he isn’t there-- it’s not exactly a relaxing, calming concept. 

“Elias,” Jon says, and Elias places a hand on Jon’s shoulder as he closes the last of the distance between them, turning towards the other people he’s been talking to. 

“Let me make introductions,” Elias says. “This is Jonathan Sims, my new Head Archivist. Jon, this is Wilhelmina Fairchild, Tova McHugh, and George Lancet.” 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Jon says, even though he’d actually been hoping for a more private conversation with Elias first. The three very well dressed people all either smile or just look at him like he’s about to do something interesting. 

“We’ve met once before, actually,” says one of the men. George, Jon thinks it was. He hates it when a series of people are all introduced at once. It makes it almost impossible to keep all of their names straight. 

“Oh?” Jon says, and has honestly no idea when this could’ve happened. The man doesn’t look even vaguely familiar to him. He probably shouldn’t say  _ you must have a very forgettable face _ to him. 

“At the Chelsea Historical Research Centre’s gala,” he says pleasantly, and Jon bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from reacting. Is this man one of the ones he’d openly insulted? “I say, I’d been expecting for you to bring that lovely woman you brought to the gala, but it’s someone else entirely. So you play the field, hm?” 

“I--” he says, and chokes a bit as what this man is saying sinks in. He thinks that Jon’s some sort of, what, flirtatious lady killer that always has someone different on his arm? He doesn’t know how to even  _ begin _ to respond to that assumption. 

“Oh, Mr. Blackwood is simply Jon’s assistant,” Elias says. “I’m sure that he’d inform me if that ever changed.” 

_ “Excuse _ me,” Jon says, astonished, and Elias just gives him an innocent little look. Jon and  _ Martin?  _ That’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. 

“While we’re on the topic,” one of the women says, either Tova or Wilhelmina, “I heard that one of the Lukases would be attending? But I don’t think that I’ve seen any of them so far. They’re always such a generous donor of yours, Elias.” 

“Oh, you know them,” Elias says. “They always make sure to send out at least one member to any vaguely important function in case something should happen, but it’s rare that they choose to make this obvious. They’re so good at blending into the background, you know. An entire family of wallflowers.” 

The other woman titters. Jon has no idea who they’re talking about. Is this what he’s supposed to do? Make meaningless small talk? Will that be enough to get them to donate? 

“I was disappointed that your grandfather couldn’t make it, Wilhelmina. Always such a charming presence.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid that he had something else to do, sadly. He--” 

One of the waiters that has been quietly drifting from cluster to cluster of people pauses by Jon, silently holding out a tray of champagne glasses in his direction, offering. Jon takes it, biting back the urge to thank him. Everyone else is speaking, and he’s fairly certain that he’s not supposed to interrupt them. He’s grateful to have something to hold, at least. 

\--The man is looking at him. George something, the one who had implied that Jon’s some sort of womanizer. The women and Elias are locked in a conversation about someone Jon has never met or even heard of, but George is just  _ looking  _ at him. Hand in his pocket, holding a glass of his own, a small smile curling at the edges of his mouth. He looks like he knows something that Jon doesn’t, and that amuses him. Jon is reminded all at once of the people at the gala, exchanging smiles and looks with each other and asking strange off the wall questions that only made sense once he looked at it through the filter of them making fun of him, thinking him some uneducated crackpot obsessed with fairy tales. George had been at the gala as well, hadn’t he? Jon meets his gaze head on and _ glares _ back at him. 

George’s smile just broadens. Jon bristles, opening his mouth to say something, ask him just what exactly is so damned amusing-- 

“Excuse me,” Elias says. “I really should go and have a private word with my Archivist, introduce him to some people.” 

And he gently takes Jon by the elbow and leads him away. Behind him, he hears some quiet words, fragments of sentences before they’re out of range.  _ What do you think about-- doesn’t look like much-- I want to play with--.  _

“Jon,” Elias says. “I did tell you how important this is, didn’t I?” 

“I-- yes, you did.” 

“And you promised me that you’d be, how did you phrase it? _ Lovely.”  _

Jon bites his tongue sourly as he remembers that he had, in fact, said exactly that. And he’d forgotten it. The way that man had just been _ looking _ at him and grinning, it had made his skin crawl. All he’d wanted was to snap at him until that smile fell away, until he looked away from him. But it doesn’t matter how-- _ unsettling _ the man had been. Elias is right. Jon has to be on his best behaviour for this. He can manage to hold his tongue for a few hours, can’t he? He has to. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he says defensively anyways, because he _ hadn’t.  _ Elias doesn’t know that Jon had been _ about _ to start something. Although perhaps it had been obvious from the look on his face, judging from the way he’d pulled him away just in time. 

“That’s good,” Elias says. “I’m sure that you can keep that up for the rest of the party, yes?” 

“Of course,” he says in the offended tones of someone who had never been just about to be rude, absolutely not. He determines not to prove himself wrong, here. He won’t forget himself again. He will be polite, no matter how damned awful whoever he ends up talking to is. 

“Wonderful,” Elias says. “Then let me just introduce you to someone whose mind you could possibly sway…” 

Jon bites back a doubtful, skeptical noise at that, because he’s supposed to be _ lovely. _ Just for tonight. He can manage that, can’t he? Yes, he can. 

As Elias scans the crowd for someone apparently suitable to Jon’s unimpressive persuasive powers, Jon spots Martin. He looks like he’s landed himself in a conversation as well, holding a small plate of appetizers in his hand. He looks obviously awkward even from this distance, his friendly smile just a bit too desperate at the edges. Completely out of place in this setting, among these people. Tim or Sasha would know what they were doing if they were here, Jon finds himself thinking unkindly. Or at least, they wouldn’t be so  _ obvious _ about not knowing. 

Martin spots him, catching his eyes. Jon looks away. 

It would be for the best if they just… avoid each other at this thing. They’re not the sort of people that would spend time together outside of work. There’s nothing wrong with that. Some people are just too different from each other. Jon needed a plus one, Martin was willing to do that for Jon for some reason, but that doesn’t mean that they need to stick to each other’s sides throughout the entire night. Jon needs to focus on being polite, and Martin has always been  _ distracting. _ Besides, he’ll have a much easier time of not being  _ too harsh _ on Martin if he just doesn’t speak to him at all. He can’t annoy Jon if he isn’t around him. This is for the best. 

He doesn’t turn to look back at Martin, but he doesn’t approach Jon, so. Good. That’s what he wanted. Jon will focus on what he’s here to do, and Martin can entertain himself. 

“Ah,” Elias says. “Yes, he should do. He’s never donated to us before, but he’s here as someone’s plus one. You should be able to convince him to perhaps contribute a small donation.” 

Jon follows Elias' gaze and sees a man. He’s leaning against the end of a bookshelf, sipping at a drink and looking rather bored. He looks tall and polished, is Jon’s first impression of him. Elias approaches him, and Jon follows, steeling himself for a spectacularly boring, polite conversation. Elias makes the introductions, and Jon makes sure to actually take in the name this time. He honestly doesn’t know how Elias manages it. 

Christian Buckingham. It’s a bit of a ridiculously posh name, but Jon manages to keep a straight face as he shakes the man’s hand. 

“I see someone I need to speak with,” Elias says, although as far as Jon can see, the patch of wall that Elias is specifically looking at is empty. “He’s been rather elusive all night. I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.” 

He leaves, and then Jon is all alone with the _ potential  _ donor. Jon braces himself. 

“Save it,” Christian says. “You don’t need to give me the spiel. I’ll write a check for a few thousand pounds at the end of the night.” 

“--oh,” Jon says, taken off guard. Somehow, Christian just being blunt and straightforward was the last thing that he’d expected. He wonders if he’s supposed to just walk away and try someone else now. … It probably wouldn’t look all that good to Elias if Jon were to walk away from someone he was introduced to in less than a minute. He’s left floundering, unsure how to proceed. 

“You work with ghost stories, yeah?” he says, and Jon bites back his immediate reaction to that, because he’s being lovely.  _ Ghost stories _ though, honestly. That makes it sound like he’s huddled around a campfire with a bunch of children, instead of pulling his hair out filling out paperwork every day. “Got any good ones?” 

“Well,” he says reluctantly, and then decides to humor him. He’s being very careful to be polite tonight, after all. Besides, he truly doesn’t mind talking about his work. He can recount some of the more _ fascinating _ cases he’s come across. “There was a very interesting one recently, about one Gereard Keay…” 

Jon rattles off the statement, the evidence and lack there of they’d managed to find in the follow up, some speculation of what he suspected may have happened, and an interesting connection to _ another  _ statement, and before he knows it he’s spent quite a lot of time speaking with Christian, gesturing animatedly with his hands as he speaks. Christian for his part doesn’t participate or cut in, but as far as Jon can tell, he isn’t bored either. He’s grinning slightly, and he wonders distantly if it’s in a mocking sort of way, but he can’t tell and, well. Even if he is silently mocking Jon, it’s not like there’s anything he can do about it. He’s being lovely. So instead he just keeps talking, and Christian keeps listening and carefully watching him, eyes steadily trained on his face. 

As Jon goes on, Christian finishes his drink, absentmindedly accepts another one from a passing waiter without taking his eyes off Jon, finishes that one as well, and gets a third. Jon barely stops talking to get a breath in, much less polish off his drink. 

It’s during one of these pauses for breath that Christian finally speaks up, halfway through his third drink. The third one since Jon started speaking with him, anyways. 

“You really love this stuff, huh?” he says. 

Jon can feel his shoulders hunch a bit with defensive embarrassment at that. It’s been a long time since anyone has accused him of loving the supernatural. He doesn’t, really. His interest is purely academic, practical. He should know what’s out there, shouldn’t he? … But also, he sort of loves it. It’s _ fascinating. _ The real stuff, anyways. 

“I’m-- I am merely passionate about my profession,” he says stiffly. 

“That’s nice,” Christian says. Jon can’t read his tone at all. And then, “You know, I was already planning on donating a bit, just out of obligation. But I could be persuaded to make an actually sizable donation.” 

Jon blinks, as he puts together what Christian is saying. He could be persuaded. Meaning, _ Jon  _ could persuade him. He… hadn’t thought that he’d be changing anyone’s minds tonight. A little thrill of proud excitement shoots down his spine. If Elias sees that someone he talked to decided to donate a lot-- that would have to make up for the few… missteps he’s made in the past, right? After all, this is the only party that actually  _ matters.  _

“That’s-- that’s very good to hear,” he says. “Would you… like to hear about more of our statements?” 

He’s scrambling to think of some of the more interesting ones that he hasn’t already talked about in great detail, when Christian shakes his head and sighs, but in a fond, amused sort of way. It’s strangely overly familiar, like Jon’s a beloved but exasperating old friend. Christian leans forwards a bit, which is when just how  _ tall _ he is registers for Jon. 

“Maybe you could tell me more stories somewhere private?” he suggests in a low voice, like he doesn’t want for anyone to overhear them. 

Alright, Jon has officially lost track of what’s happening. Why would they need to go somewhere private for that? 

“... Somewhere more private?” he asks, hoping that Christian might elaborate, and then everything will make sense again and Jon can act like he was never confused at all. 

“So we can speak freely,” Christian says, and casually sets a hand on Jon’s arm. Jon startles at the contact, looking at the hand like it’s something foreign. Christian is just a stranger, and yet he’s touching him like there’s no question of whether or not he has a right. He wants to shake him off for a moment, but then remembers.  _ Be more lovely.  _

“We can’t speak freely here?” he says, and hates that he has to ask. He’s showing how little he knows, that he’s  _ missing _ something. 

Christian makes an amused noise, squeezing Jon’s arm once with his hand. It really is too fond, too affectionate. 

“You definitely shouldn’t try to  _ persuade _ me out here where everyone can see,” he says, his eyes dark and still fixed on Jon’s face. He says  _ persuade _ like the word has a double meaning, a euphemism. He inches further into Jon’s space, until he can feel his breath on his face. “You look really nice when you’re talking about something you’re passionate about, you know.” 

Christian’s hand strokes up Jon’s arm to his shoulder and grips it, and that’s what makes it click together. He isn’t just avidly looking at Jon’s face-- his gaze is lingering on his mouth, his throat. Jon could  _ persuade _ him to make a sizable donation if only he goes somewhere more _ private  _ with him-- 

Before Jon can stop himself, he recoils. He doesn’t get far though, with Christian firmly gripping his shoulder. Christian frowns, for the first time not looking fond or amused. 

“That is-- no, no thank you,” Jon sputters. It’s all he can think to say. He can’t remember the last time someone’s made advances like  _ that _ on him. He’s suddenly and overwhelmingly  _ mortified  _ that this has happened at all, and very much wants to retreat immediately and act like this never happened. Good lord, what could he have possibly said or done to make the man think that he’s willing to do _ that  _ for  _ donations? _ People  _ do that?  _

“I’ve been listening to you talk for almost an hour now,” Christian says, annoyed. Had it really been that long? 

“Well,” he says, defensive, wounded. “If you were that bored then you should have interrupted me.” 

“As if I could’ve gotten a word in edgewise,” he says sharply. Jon thins his mouth, displeased with how much that had actually hurt, and reaches up to move Christian’s hand off of him. 

Christian resists him, his hand not budging an inch. 

“Let go of me,” Jon hisses at him, starting to get truly  _ angry  _ now. 

“No,” Christian says flatly, and Jon blinks at him, baffled. 

_ “No?”  _

Christian scowls at him now, looming. He really is very tall. “Apologize for wasting my time first,” he says frostily. 

Jon barks an incredulous laugh at that, but Christian’s frown just darkens further. He’s being  _ serious. _ Good lord. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says. 

“Well, then I’m not letting go of you, am I?” he says, like he’s perfectly content to bitterly keep Jon trapped here with him for the rest of the evening. Which is-- he can’t, can he? All Jon has to do is ask someone for help, and-- 

But if he calls anyone’s attention to this, he’d be making a scene. He’d be breaking his promise to himself, to Elias, to bite his tongue and be polite no matter what this evening. He can’t ask anyone for help. 

Christian is still standing very closely to him. Before, it had apparently been his attempt at intimacy, seduction, which is a sickening enough thought to contemplate on its own. Now, it’s a threatening, angry sort of closeness, the way two people locked in argument might drift closer and closer to each other to get their seething fury across. Except it’s entirely one sided, in this case. 

Jon breathes rapidly through his nose, looking up into Christian’s scowling eyes, and tries to figure out what he should do now. 

Apologize for wasting his time, probably. God, he doesn’t want to grovel to this-- this  _ awful _ man, but-- 

“Hi, excuse me,” a bright, cheery voice cuts into the thick, tense silence, and then suddenly Martin’s there, obliviously smiling and elbowing his way between Jon and Christian. The both of them stare at him as if an elephant has seen fit to cheerfully wander into the library. “Hullo, Jon, I was _ looking _ for you. I’ve been talking to this really nice lady about you, actually, and she wants to meet you! Come on, we’re keeping her waiting.” 

“Excuse me,” Christian says to the back of Martin’s head, looking highly affronted at not being acknowledged. “I was talking to him. You’re going to have to wait until I’m done.” 

Martin turns around towards Christian. He stands straight, instead of huddling in on himself and-- he’s _ taller  _ than Christian. That’s a shocking revelation, somehow. Christian has seemed so tall, so looming, and now all of a sudden he’s shorter than  _ Martin Blackwood?  _ How has he never noticed how tall Martin is before? 

Well, Martin doesn’t loom or breathe in his face or grip his shoulder tightly enough to not be dislodged, he supposes. That may have something to do with it. 

“You’re done,” Martin says flatly, even though he’s still smiling. “He needs to go with me now.” 

“And just who the hell are  _ you?” _

A clumsy archival assistant who was invited as a last resort and is wearing a second hand suit, is the true answer. 

Martin looks directly into Christian’s eyes and says without a single waver of hesitation, “His boyfriend.” 

Jon chokes. 

“So, if you’d just let go of him, I’d really appreciate it,” he goes on brightly, somehow not looking awkward or uncomfortable at all in the most wildly awkward and uncomfortable situation that Jon has been trapped in for years. 

Christian looks into Martin’s eyes for a long moment, not letting go of Jon’s shoulder. Martin doesn’t blink or flinch or look away or so much as fidget. Jon can’t look away. He’s never seen Martin like this before. 

“... Whatever,” Christian eventually says, and his grip loosens on Jon’s shoulder. Jon knocks his hand off himself before Christian can let go. 

“Thanks,” Martin says, in a way that doesn’t sound particularly grateful, and then he’s placed his hand on Jon’s back and he’s walking away, gently pushing Jon along with him. 

“Good lord,” is all he can think to say. 

“Yeah,” Martin says, and _ now  _ there’s emotion in his voice, instead of just steel. He sounds-- scared, angry, shocked? Maybe just  _ upset.  _ That covers quite a lot. “That was, uh--” 

“Yes,” Jon agrees. 

Martin looks at him, a concerned look flashing across his face. “You  _ did _ want to get away from that guy, right? I just realized that I didn’t really let you, um, say anything before I just dragged you away.” 

That’s true, Jon realizes. He’d just sort of stood there and stared as Martin had swooped in out of nowhere and fixed the problem. He’d been too stunned to do anything else. 

“I did,” he assures him. “He was… unpleasant.” 

“Oh, good,” Martin says, relieved. 

“How… how did you know to--” _ to come and save me, _ except he can’t say _ that.  _ He’s not some-- some _ damsel. _ He just… hadn’t known how to leave. “How did you know that I needed an excuse to end the conversation?” 

_ Conversation _ is a generous way of putting it. It had felt more like a hostage situation towards the end there. But it hadn’t been that obvious from the outside, had it? Neither of them had raised their voices. He looks around the room shiftily as they walk steadily further away from Christian, wondering if Martin noticed that perhaps anyone else did as well. That idea doesn’t sit well with him at all. 

“Well,” Martin says. “I was, um, I just happened to be watching you at the time, and you seemed sort of… uncomfortable. Especially when he grabbed your shoulder. So I just thought that I’d drop by and give you an excuse to leave if you wanted to.” 

How fortunate that Martin was watching at just the right moment. But there’s something else bothering him, and he frowns. 

“And how exactly did you know that calling yourself  _ my boyfriend _ was the right move?” he asks. Can Martin read lips? Good lord, he hopes not. 

Martin’s face goes red all at once, and he covers it with one hand. “Oh, god,” he groans, despairing and mortified. “I’m sorry about that. It just-- slipped out. It seemed like the right thing to say to get him to back off.” 

“And why is that?” he pushes. 

“Well, he just--” Martin says, and gestures vaguely in the air, as if that is going to make anything clearer. Jon gives him an impatient  _ go on _ look. “The way he kept  _ looking _ at you made it really obvious what he wanted to do, okay?” 

“Oh,” he says. So it really had been that obvious, even to someone who wasn’t involved in the conversation. 

He always has been terrible at picking up on those sorts of cues. It’s not his thing. 

“And he  _ licked his lips _ at some point while you were talking,” Martin goes. 

“What!?” Jon demands, disgusted and horrified. “He  _ did?”  _

“Yes! And not in a way like he had dry lips, you know, but like he was  _ hungry _ and it was just-- gross.” 

“I didn’t notice,” he says faintly. 

_ “Fuck _ that guy,” Martin says. Jon chokes on his spit. He’s never heard Martin swear before in his life. He hadn’t realized that he could do it with such  _ venom.  _

A passing guest grazes past them a bit too closely, and Martin slows down to avoid a collision, pressing his hand on Jon’s back slightly to steer him closer to him. That’s when it registers for him that Martin is  _ still _ casually touching him. He’d never stopped. His hand is placed high on his back, held out flat. It’s not a tightly curled restraining grip. He could get away from it easily, if he wanted to. Still, it’s surprising. Unlike Martin. 

“Your hand, Martin,” he says. 

“What? Oh, shit, sorry.” He snatches his hand away, as if scalded. “I just-- wanted to sell it. The boyfriend thing. Um.” 

“I think you sold it well enough,” Jon says. “You really are a shockingly good liar.” 

A  _ distressingly  _ good liar. Jon doesn’t think that he’d be able to just pull off a lie that audacious without taking a few minutes to prepare and brace himself for it first. Does Martin lie to him? If he does, Jon’s not sure that he would even notice. 

“Oh, well-- it’s not that big of a deal, really. Lying’s just saying stuff that isn’t true. Easy.” 

“That is technically a dictionary definition of lying, yes,” he says. 

Martin ducks his head sheepishly at that, but he’s grinning a bit too. Jon finds himself smiling back. He feels a bit lightheaded with relief, that he got pulled away from that situation. Not that anything  _ bad _ was about to happen. He would have grit his teeth and apologized, and Christian would’ve most likely let him go. Nothing too terrible, that. But he still can’t help but feel grateful for the granted escape anyways. It had been one of the most unpleasant interactions he’s had in recent memory. He’s lucky that Martin had been paying attention to him at that moment, that he realized what was going on, that he came to help. 

He’s lucky that Martin came with him to this party. 

Not that he’s been acting like it. Guilt pangs low in his stomach at that. Martin  _ is _ doing him a favor by coming here. And in exchange, Jon has been avoiding him, leaving him to his own devices without so much as an excuse. 

“Martin,” he says, and doesn’t know how to say _ I’m sorry for feeling incredibly irritated with you over something that seems sort of inconsequential and unfair in hindsight _ without sounding hideously awkward. Should he even apologize for that, if Martin hadn’t noticed it? That would only call his attention to it in the first place, wouldn’t it? Wait, had Martin noticed it or not? Because he’s apparently more perceptive than Jon’s been giving him credit for. Finally, he settles on, “Thank you. For-- for helping with that man, but also for coming with me here in the first place. It’s very… generous of you. You helped me out of a bind. I should’ve said so earlier.” 

Martin looks at him. He doesn’t look shocked, exactly, but nonetheless like Jon has said something completely unexpected. Then he smiles, wry and friendly. There’s an edge of something to that smile that he can’t quite decipher. 

“It’s no problem,” he says. “I know you would’ve rather gone with Tim or Sasha if you could’ve. I’m glad I could help.” 

That makes Jon startle. 

“That’s not true,” he immediately denies before he can even think it over. 

Martin turns a puzzled look on him, but he doesn’t look angry or upset, confrontational. He just looks like he’s stating a fact, and for some strange reason Jon is arguing with him. 

“Isn’t it?” he asks. “You asked both Tim and Sasha first, didn’t you?” 

He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out, because-- because yes, that is true. And he had been bitterly thinking about how much better Sasha or Tim would be doing at this party earlier, hadn’t he? If he could have exchanged Martin for one of his other assistants in that moment, he would have. 

What _ had  _ he been so irritated with him about, now again? That he seemed uncomfortable here. Awkward and out of place. 

Why did that make him so angry? It’s not exactly unreasonable.  _ Jon _ doesn’t feel comfortable here either. He doesn’t know how to talk to these people, how to mingle and charm, how to feel like he belongs. He has no idea what he’s doing here, and he  _ hates _ it. It’s not fair of him to get so, so annoyed with Martin when he does the exact same thing. 

\--Wait. 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he says. 

Martin’s shaking his head. “There’s nothing to be  _ sorry _ about--” 

“I should have considered you earlier,” he says, more firmly. “You’ve been a perfectly fine-- plus one.” He almost said  _ date. _ “More than fine, really. You’ve been very… attentive, and helpful. It’s just… easier, to ask Tim or Sasha. I’ve known them for longer. And--” just say it, “--and I haven’t been… overly harsh on them like I have with you. It’s easier to ask them for favors because things are more balanced between us. Not like-- not like it is between you and me. So, I’m sorry about that.” 

Martin stares at him for a long moment. Jon tries not to crawl out of his own skin as he waits. 

Finally, he speaks up. “I  _ thought _ that you’d been weirdly nice, lately.” 

“Excuse me?” That was somehow the last thing that he’d expected for Martin to say. 

“Just for the last few weeks, here and there. It’s, just,  _ really _ conspicuous whenever it happens. Like, it’s always really clearly deliberate? It’s hard not to notice. I was wondering what was going on.” 

“Was it,” he says. He hadn’t realized that kindness was so rare from him that it apparently looked  _ stilted _ and  _ unnatural  _ on him. 

“I was sort of worried that maybe you were thinking about firing me, so you were overcompensating,” he goes on. 

“No!” Jon exclaims. “I wasn’t-- I wouldn’t! I was just trying to-- Sasha informed me that I’ve been too-- too harsh on you, more than you deserve and-- I trust her judgement. So I’ve been trying to, you know, stop doing that. Not… entirely successfully, clearly.” 

Because he hadn’t fully realized  _ why _ he’s so harsh on Martin. Until now. It’s not that he’s unusually incompetent or lazy or clumsy. Tim interrupts work hours for silly jokes or friendly conversations, Sasha gets distracted and ends up researching something entirely unrelated to her work for hours on end, and Jon-- Jon isn’t exactly flawless either. 

He just hates it when it’s clear that Martin doesn’t know what he’s doing. It always unpleasantly reminds him that  _ he _ doesn’t know what he’s doing. Sometimes. Occasionally. 

… Perhaps a bit more frequently since he was promoted. How long is he supposed to have this job before he feels comfortable with it? He’s a  _ boss. _ He can fire people. He can tell them what to do, or what not to do. It seems like someone must have made some sort of terrible mistake at some point.  _ He _ shouldn’t have that sort of authority. 

“Well,” Martin says, “I appreciate that you’re trying now, at least? I  _ have _ noticed that you’re acting differently, don’t worry. You’re really not all that bad, Jon.” 

Tim had told him that it’s bad to leave your date alone for too long. Jon had done it on purpose.  _ He _ was the one who’d asked Martin to come here, Martin was here for  _ his _ sake. Before tonight he’d been told that he was being unfair to Martin, and he trusted that to an extent. But now he  _ knows _ it. 

“I haven’t been all that good either,” he says. He’s not going to let Martin make excuses for him, not tonight. “You don’t deserve to be singled out or-- or picked on.” 

“You make it sound like you’ve been  _ bullying _ me,” Martin says. 

He says it like it’s a ridiculous accusation, but it makes Jon’s stomach twist. He’s never wanted to be someone’s bully. 

“I’ve been letting my… my insecurities get the better of me,” he goes on. “You make me feel-- well, it doesn’t really matter. It’s honestly nothing that you’ve been doing wrong. I’ve just been taking things that I’m mad about myself out on you, I suppose.” 

The confession is far too sincere for him to be able to bring himself to look at Martin as he says it, so he looks away instead. He can’t see whatever expression is on his face. The words feel clunky in his mouth, too raw, not digested or articulated properly. He can only hope that he’s making any sense at all. 

Finally, the silence breaks. “I  _ knew _ it,” Martin says, in tones of triumphant vindication. 

“Pardon?” He lifts his gaze up from the floor back up to Martin’s face. Martin grins at him like he’s just won some sort of argument. It’s an  _ I told you so _ sort of grin, even though Jon is fairly certain that Martin hasn’t told him anything about _ this.  _

“I was trying to figure out why you were so much stricter with me than Sasha or Tim,” he says. “And I guessed that you were just having some serious projection issues. I was _ right.”  _

“I-- that is--” he stammers, having  _ no _ idea how to respond to that, and Martin’s smile broadens. He realizes that Martin’s _ teasing _ him, the way Tim or Sasha would, and he doesn’t look nervous to do it. And Jon doesn’t feel annoyed. Just flustered. He takes a deep breath and decides that… this is okay. This is good. He wants for Martin to be able to do this. 

“Well, perhaps you were,” he says, with an affected stiffness to his tone. Tim had once named it ‘the offended duchess’, which he mildly resents. 

It makes Martin give a surprised giggle though, so he supposes that he doesn’t  _ particularly  _ mind. 

“Have you met anyone at this damned thing that isn’t absolutely insufferable yet?” he asks him. “Because I haven’t.” 

“Oh,” Martin says. “There was this one lady? I talked to her for a while, she seemed okay. Where is she…” 

Martin scans the room for this mythical guest who apparently has some basic human decency, or at least the ability to not come across as absolutely awful in the span of a single conversation, and Jon makes sure to stay close to his side. He’s left him alone for tonight for long enough as it is. Besides… what if that terrible man Jon spoke to is watching? Martin had told him that they were-- that they were boyfriends. Best to keep up appearances, right? 

Of course. That’s all. 

That’s all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This fic has been pretty cutesy in general so far, but in this chapter an OC makes some pretty uncomfortable and aggressive sexual advances on a character


	4. Jon

Jon has finally begun to feel somewhat comfortable in his role as the Head Archivist for the Magnus Institute, lately. He feels less like a man wearing a costume, and more like a man simply heading in for work for the day. Perhaps it is thanks to the simple passage of time that he finally feels like he can say what his job is without feeling like he has to be ready to defend himself in case of doubt or incredulity. Maybe he has learned on the job enough that he no longer counts as someone who has ended up with a promotion that he doesn’t know what to do with. 

It’s none of those things, though. He entertains the thought for a moment, but he knows it isn’t true. It’s because he can allow himself to smirk at or play along with Tim’s jokes again, and not keenly feel like he’s goofing off or wasting time. It’s because he can ask Sasha for advice on a problem, and talk out the issue with her. It’s because he can admit to Martin that he doesn’t really know where those files are supposed to go either, and they’ll just have to try and figure out a solution together. 

It’s less that he’s become comfortable with the position, and more that he’s become comfortable with the  _ people.  _ Which is a relief. It was the main reason why he’d first thought to ask for Tim and Sasha as his assistants, after all. He already knew them, he trusted their competency, and, well, he didn’t have anything to prove to them. They already liked him, although he couldn’t say why. It didn’t matter that he had a new job, he could continue to be himself around them as he figured out how to handle his new responsibilities. They’d understand that he was just a person. That he was just Jon. There would be no one around down in the Archives to see his fumbling and graceless adjustment period but the two of them. 

But then suddenly Martin, a  _ stranger, _ was there as well and-- well, then he  _ had _ to act like he wasn’t as surprised as anyone else that he was the Head Archivist now, like the position fit him like a glove and he had no issues with it, none at all. Or at least, it had felt like he had to. And then before he knew it he was keeping up the act around Tim and Sasha and then  _ himself _ as well and… 

He’d kept the pretense up for so long that it had been very, very had to put it back down. But things are different now. He’s put the facade away, and it finally feels like he can  _ breathe _ again. Somehow, the job is  _ easier _ when he isn’t trying so desperately to do it perfectly. Something about being able to bring himself to ask for help and admit that he doesn’t know everything, he supposes. 

He is the Head Archivist. He has three assistants, and he-- well, he enjoys working with them very much. All of them. They’re good assistants. Invaluable assistants, even, but that sounds rather overly sentimental so he doesn’t think that he’ll be voicing that thought out loud any time soon. But it remains true. He feels at ease around them, he can speak with them, he can work with them without feeling like he has something to prove. They’re excellent company. Things have changed for the better, that is undeniable. 

So he doesn’t quite know what to make of the whispering. 

It’s only started up in the last couple of weeks now. He’ll sometimes hear the very edge of it while he’s in the kitchenette, or if the door to his office is cracked open, or if he walks into the wider space in the Archives at an apparently unexpected moment. His assistants, quietly talking to each other, like they don’t want to be overheard. 

There’s no one else to be overheard by down here but him. He is not whispered to. If he walks into a room while it is happening, it abruptly stops as soon as he is noticed, with no attention called to it. 

He doesn’t like it, obviously. It makes his imagination run wild, trying to guess what they could possibly be discussing that they don’t want for him to know about. Is it about  _ him? _ It must be, right? Why are they talking about him? What are they saying, that they don’t for him to hear it? Is it bad? It must be, right? Why else would they be hiding it? Why else-- 

He takes a deep breath, and takes his glasses off so he can press at his closed eyes. No, don’t go back down that familiar spiral. Nothing will come of it. And he _ trusts _ them. He likes them. They like him. He’s almost completely certain of it. 

If only they weren’t secretly conspiring against him in some way, everything would be perfect. 

“They’re not  _ conspiring,”  _ he says, making his tone as derisive as he can make it, which is quite a lot. He tries to convince himself. “You’re being absolutely ridiculous. Do you hear yourself? There are plenty of perfectly decent reasons for them to be whispering behind your back. Such as… as…” 

He struggles for a long moment to think of something. 

“Perhaps it’s…” he trails off. An intervention? No, that isn’t good, he doesn’t want that. And for what? He hasn’t smoked in quite some time now, thank you. 

… Are they unionizing? He really hopes that they don’t think that they have to hide that from him. He’d happily help them! 

Or, simplest explanation, they could just be gossiping about him behind his back. Complaining, venting. That’s what people do about their bosses, isn’t it? He remembers listening to Tim grumble about Elias after being given a deadline, Sasha making a few snide remarks. 

… He really, really hopes that it isn’t that last one. 

One day, Jon wanders into the dark, shadowed, towering shelves and shelves full of precariously stacked files and boxes full of files and who knows what else that lingers at the back of the Archives, in search of a particular statement. He thinks that the latest one he’s read briefly describes a man that might be Michael-something, but he isn’t quite sure, and he’s hoping that he could possibly read a statement he’d recorded in the past to refresh his memory and contrast and compare. 

Entirely by accident, he ends up overhearing part of a conversation there. 

He’s walking slowly, scanning the scribbled numbers on the files set up on the shelves as he goes, as hopeless as it is. Even if the filing system weren’t completely idiotic, it’s also all utterly out of order as well, so honestly it’s borderline completely useless. Nonetheless, he tries to pay attention anyways. It _ is _ his job to whip this place back into shape after decades of neglect. 

Then he hears something. A voice. Before he’s even realized it, he’s drifted closer, trying to make the indistinct noise clarify until it takes a proper shape, comprehensible words made audible. 

“... is a _ great _ idea,” Sasha’s saying. 

“I don’t know,” Martin says. “What if he doesn’t…?” 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“I can think of quite a  _ lot, _ actually.” 

“Oh, it’s not like the roof is going to come crashing down on us or something.” 

“Yes, I know that, but what if Jon gets  _ upset?  _ That could probably happen, you know! That’s a very realistic fear!” 

“... I hadn’t considered that,” she eventually says, as if it stings to admit it. 

“And I know that wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Martin goes on, the words beginning to tumble out fast and anxious, “but I really don’t want for it to happen  _ anyways.”  _

“Okay, yes, that is a valid concern, but perhaps we can figure out how to better avoid that if you’d just participate in the planning sessions more instead of going on about how you’re not sure if this is a good idea or that we should do anything at all! Listen, I’ve put a lot of thought into this, and I believe that it’s the best possible course of action we could take. It’s the only one where there’s a possibility that _ everyone _ ends up happy. Seriously, what do you think we should do instead? Draw _ lots _ for who gets to call dibs--” 

“It-- it’s not as if all of us have an equal shot, you know!” 

“What? What are you talking about? Martin, Jon stopped treating you badly ages ago.” 

“That doesn’t mean--” 

There’s a sort of chiming noise, and the both of them go quiet all at once. After a moment, Sasha speaks up. 

“Tim says that Jon went into the stacks a bit ago. We should talk about this more somewhere else, later.” 

Jon has been very still and quiet until now, scarcely aware of his own body as he focuses every single fiber of attention he has on the conversation at hand. That, however, makes him startle. They’re looking out for each other, making sure that he won’t overhear them. He hadn’t imagined that he was being kept tabs on that closely, the secret being kept so carefully. 

“I don’t see that there’s much to talk about,” Martin grumbles. 

“You’re the _ one _ holdout on the plan. We can’t-- or we won’t, I guess-- enact it without you. We’re going to figure out how to make you be okay with it.” 

“Sure.” 

“Cafe after work?” 

He wants to stay. He wants to keep listening until they say something that finally makes that whole conversation make sense, context filled in, but instead he leaves as Sasha and Martin are still arranging their meeting, his heart hammering with guilt and adrenaline. He definitely wasn’t supposed to have overheard that. He should have walked away. He should have announced himself. 

He desperately wishes that he’d found them sooner, so that he could have heard more. His mind whirls with questions. Whatever it is, they’re afraid that it might upset him. But they don’t  _ want _ for it to upset him. The only possible option where all of them could end up happy, Sasha had said. Whatever this secret is, it isn’t as nefarious or malicious as he’d feared. But it doesn’t seem entirely harmless either, judging by Martin’s hesitation. 

Only one thing is for certain. The whispering and conspiring is undeniably about  _ him.  _

Somehow, having slightly more of an idea of what his assistants are talking about behind his back, but not  _ quite _ knowing, makes him feel even more restless. He can feel the need to find out what exactly is going on  _ itching _ at him. What can he do, though? Go out of his way to try and overhear more conversations? Is that too underhanded? They’re the ones who’re whispering about him. Isn’t it fairplay that he might want to try and find out the details? They’re the ones who started being furtive first. 

He’s been told on good authority that he’s  _ terrible _ at being furtive, though. 

He could just ask them, of course. 

He  _ could  _ just ask them. But what is he going to do if he asks, and they lie to his face? Shout at them? Demand the truth? The idea makes him wince. He wants answers, but he very much doesn’t want to shout at them. He finally feels comfortable with them. Liked, trusted. Except for this strange, mysterious secret that he isn’t in on, that is. He doesn’t want to ruin that, to go back to the way things used to be. He hadn’t realized how  _ tired _ and frayed he’d felt every single day until the sensation had slowly faded away. 

It really is sort of driving him mad, though. If this goes on much longer he _ will _ have to do  _ something--  _

“Boss,” Tim says, snapping him out of his reverie, his thoughts circling around in an increasingly familiar unproductive rut. He jumps a little where he stands, twitching to look at Tim standing at the entrance to the kitchenette, as if he had perhaps been able to see Jon’s frustrated, near frantic thoughts. 

The kitchenette doesn’t really have an entrance, exactly, nor even a change in flooring to help make the distinction between ‘Archives’ and ‘kitchenette’ clear, but at a certain point you are standing in the Archives, and at a certain point you are standing in the kitchenette. It’s just a drab little L shaped counter pushed into a corner of the wider room that his assistants’ desks occupy, enough to house a dinky little sink, an ancient mini fridge, an unreliable microwave, and a small stove, enough to boil tea water on with the electric kettle. There’s some cabinets beneath the counter that mostly just hold tea bags and biscuits. It’s serviceable. 

Jon had come here to retrieve a squashed saran wrapped sandwich from the fridge because he  _ does _ actually remember to eat lunch sometimes, thank you. But then he’d heard the sound of his assistants voices behind him, their voices casually kept at a volume where he can’t make out of any of the words, and he’d known that if he tried to edge any closer to hear them better that they’d immediately stop talking, or change the subject, as they _ always _ do when he’s within earshot. And so he’d just stood there, knowing that the answers he sought were only a few feet away, and yet he wasn’t allowed to hear them, and he’d had to yet again wrestle with the urge to just march over to them and demand an answer. 

And now, Tim has managed to walk up to him without him noticing. He must have gotten lost in thought. 

“What?” he says, and he winces as the words come out too sharp and defensive. 

But Tim just grins at him, apparently unoffended by his tone. This is, admittedly, far from the first time that Tim has interrupted him after he’s become lost in thought. Perhaps he’s used to it. 

“I had a question for you,” he says. 

_ “Tim,” _ Martin says, sounding positively horrified, standing up from his desk like he wants to sprint the distance between him and bodily tackle him. 

Tim flaps a dismissive hand behind him without looking back at Martin. 

“It’s not what you’re thinking of, Marto, don’t worry,” he says, unconcerned. 

“What is he thinking of?” Jon asks immediately. 

“I asked first,” he says, oh so reasonably. 

“You haven’t actually asked any questions yet--” 

“Which of us is your favorite?” 

Jon blinks. That, somehow, had been the last thing he’d expected to hear. “Pardon?” 

“Me, Martin, or Sasha? Come on, rank us best to worst.” 

“Oh,” Sasha says. She and Martin have drifted closer towards the kitchenette while Jon wasn’t paying attention, gravitating towards the conversation. “Yeah, I guess that could work.” 

Martin makes a muffled, pained noise, his hands over his face. 

_ “Rank _ you?” Jon asks. “What is this about? Are you trying to win some sort of argument?” 

“Yes, actually!” Tim says cheerfully. “If you could just give us a straight answer then that would be really helpful.” 

“What is it about?” he asks. If they’re going to use ‘Jon’s favorite wins’ as some bizarre, childish sort of arbitration tool, then he wants to know what the stakes are. If they’re arguing about where to order takeout from again, he’s going to rig the game and name the best option the winner. 

“Can’t tell you,” Tim says loftily. “It’ll taint the results. That’s how science works, y’know.” 

“Come on, Jon,” Sasha says, joining in. “It’s easy. Just tell us which of us you like best.” 

“We’re adults!” Tim picks up the wheedling as soon as she finishes. “We can handle the truth, trust us.” 

Martin doesn’t join in with the cajoling, Jon notices. He doesn’t look like he’s particularly enjoying himself. 

“I don’t-- this is highly immature,” he sputters, for lack of anything better to say. He feels strangely caught off guard, like he’s being ordered to do something beyond him. 

“Please?” Tim asks, and then he shoots a look at Sasha. 

“Please?” she adds, and then she shoots a look at Martin. 

Martin crosses his arms. 

“We’ll drop the whole argument if you go along with it,” Tim stage whispers to him. So it’s an argument between Tim and Sasha versus Martin? The thought of them fighting sits unpleasantly in his stomach for some reason, but Tim and Sasha don’t look angry or upset.  _ Martin  _ however-- 

_ “Fine,” _ Martin says, setting his jaw mulishly. He looks at Jon. “Please?” 

Jon opens his mouth. Closes it. He’s at the receiving end of three expectant gazes, and he belatedly realizes that he’s been cornered, backed up with the sink at his back and no available escape routes left. Why does he want to escape? He just has to choose a favorite. That’s all. A meaningless, petty little thing. 

Tim, Sasha, or Martin. Who does he like best? 

He thinks of that vivid flash of an image that had gone through his head like a lightning bolt at the holiday party, wanting to lean up and give Tim a fond, familiar kiss. He thinks of his eyes being drawn by the bright red color of Sasha’s lipstick, his gaze resting there for a long moment. He thinks of Martin calling himself his boyfriend, his hand on his back like there was nothing strange about him touching him. 

His face feels very, very warm, his heart a hummingbird that’s been trapped in his chest. He tries to say something and stalls out, only an aborted syllable making it past his lips before he falters. He stares wide eyed at the three of them, feeling sweaty palmed and panicky, like prey. Which is absolutely absurd. 

Just pick one. 

“Don’t you have a favorite?” Sasha prods him. 

“No,” he blurts out. 

_ “No?” _ Tim asks, but a wide and delighted smile slowly spreads across his face as he says it. 

“No, you’re-- you’re all my favorite,” he says, feeling borderline feverish as he does so. What the hell is he saying? He sounds like a parent not trying to hurt any of the kids’ feelings. 

“We’re  _ all _ your favorite,” Sasha repeats. “So what you’re saying is that you… just can’t choose? So you’re picking all of us?” 

“Yes, exactly,” he says, clipped with embarrassment and something else that he can’t quite name, emotion roiling in the pit of his stomach. 

“What a _ novel idea,”  _ Tim says. “It’s perfect, really. This way, everyone gets to be happy!” 

“Precisely,” he says weakly. “Can I just-- excuse me, I have work to be doing, I can’t just stand here all day--” 

And he flees, squeezing his way past Martin and Sasha, abandoning his sandwich in his haste. 

“... Okay,” he hears Martin say in a small, stunned voice before his office door closes behind him, and then there’s the jubilant, muffled sound of Tim and Sasha cheering after the door clicks shut. But he doesn’t have any attention to spare for that, because what the  _ hell _ had _ that _ been? Why had he thought those things? Remembered them? He’d been doing such a good job of  _ not _ doing that, until now. He isn’t supposed to have those kinds of thoughts about his coworkers. His friends. All three of his friends. 

“What the hell,” he breathes to himself, his hand hovering over his mouth, a breath away from touching his lips. He’s too aware of them, the way he is whenever he wants to be kissed. It has been a long, long time since he’s wanted that. It usually doesn’t. He’s never been the type of person to  _ want _ things whenever he sees some beautiful stranger, even in an idle sort of way. He only ever wants anything like that from very  _ specific _ people. People that he already cares for, deeply. 

The problem is, he doesn’t even know who it is that he wants to kiss. How can he not know that? He has to know  _ that _ much. 

He tries to imagine it. Kissing each of them. Maybe then he can figure out which one it is. One of them will fill him with some sort of longing and the others won’t. Yes. That will  _ have to  _ work. He imagines it. Tim’s lips brushing up against his, being able to taste the edges of his smile. Sasha’s lipstick leaving behind smears on his mouth, tangible lingering evidence of affection. Martin, gently cradling his jaw-- or maybe the side of his face-- or maybe his shoulders-- or maybe his hips-- or maybe the small of his back-- any of them, all of them. 

When there’s a knock on the other side of the door he’s leaning against, he very nearly yelps. He stands up straight and blinks rapidly, coming back to himself. What-- how long had he been considering what it would be like to kiss each of his assistants? No. He’d been  _ daydreaming.  _

He can’t possibly-- 

“Erm, Jon?” Martin asks, giving another little knock on the door. “Can I come in?” 

He inhales sharply. Whatever is going on, he knows that he doesn’t want for anyone to find it out. At least not before  _ he  _ finds it out. He should be the first; it’s  _ his  _ problem, after all. Quickly, he walks over to his desk and sits down in his chair. 

“Come in,” he says, and hopes that it didn’t come out too loud, too forced. 

Martin opens the door, walks in. Tim and Sasha follow on his heels, looking bright eyed and excited, even though it isn’t that big of an office, actually. It feels cramped with all four of them in it, breathing the same air. He picks up a pen just so that he can grip it tightly, feeling far too aware of every single inch of himself. Can they see on his face what he’s been thinking about? 

But Tim and Sasha seem to only have eyes for Martin right now, and Martin keeps glancing back at them with annoyed self consciousness. 

“Why do I have to be the one who asks?” he asks them plaintively. 

“Because you’re the one who’s been making us stall so much,” Sasha says, ever so reasonable. “It’s only fair.” 

Martin gives a grimace, and looks at Jon. 

“Yes?” Jon asks. He can’t imagine what they want to ask him now. It had better not be the ‘who’s the favorite’ question again, because apparently that makes him have some sort of minor crisis. 

“Wouldyoubemyplusone?” he asks, all in a rush. 

Jon blinks. “Could you… repeat yourself?” 

“Would you go to a party with me! To, you know--” and here he stops to shoot a quick look at Tim and Sasha, as if they’re putting him up to something, but they both just continue to grin at him unrepentantly. “... return the favor,” he continues weakly. He frowns. “That makes it sound like I hated going to the party with you, which I  _ didn’t.”  _

Jon tries to make his train of thought switch tracks to keep up with this unexpected twist in the conversation. He hadn’t seen this coming. He’d thought what Martin had been doing for him as a favor, as well as Tim and Sasha, even if Sasha had mostly gone with him for herself at the start there. But somehow, it had never occurred to him to wonder what they might ask of him to repay said favor. 

Well, asking for him to do literally exactly what Martin had done for Jon is very fair, honestly. He has nothing to complain about. 

“That party was absolutely dreadful,” he ends up saying. 

“I-- okay, yeah, but that wasn’t  _ your _ fault. I-- I liked the parts when I was talking to  _ you.” _

Warmth curls inside his chest at hearing that, and he grips the pen he’s holding even tighter. Would that statement have hit him so profoundly only an hour ago, before he’d realized that-- that there’s  _ something _ going on? He doesn’t know. 

“Right,” he gets out in response to that. He clears his throat. “I return the-- that is, the-- the feeling is mutual. I also enjoyed talking to you.”  _ Talking to you was the only part I liked too.  _

“Okay,” Martin says. His face has gone red again. It does that fairly often, he notes. “That’s-- great, good.” 

Sasha clears her throat. 

“Don’t rush me!” he whisper-shouts at her, sounding harrowed. She makes a ‘get on with it’ motion with her hand. He makes a frustrated noise, and turns his focus back on Jon, who has one eyebrow raised. Martin pushes on, ignoring it. “So, um, will you? Go to a party with me?” 

“Oh,” he says. That’s right, he hadn’t ever actually given his answer. “Yes, of course. That’s-- it’s only reasonable. When is it?” 

“I’ll, um, we can figure it out together later,” Martin says. Jon nods. 

“Ahem,” Tim says, and steps up. There’s a few moments of shuffling as he and Martin trade places. “Boss. Jon. Pal. I’ve got a proposition for you.” 

“Yes?” he asks warily. 

Tim gives him a friendly smile, but there’s a bit of a mischievous light in his eye. “Would you do me the honor of being my plus one at a party I’m going to? It would only be decent of you considering that, you know, I did the same thing for you.” 

“... Naturally,” he answers. Yes, something strange is definitely happening right now, but he hasn’t quite grasped it yet. 

Is this that thing that they’ve been whispering about for so long now? He can’t make heads or tails of it. 

“Great!” Tim says. “We’ll talk details in a bit.” 

He steps aside and gestures with a flourish for Sasha to take his place. “The floor is yours,” he says gallantly, and steps back. 

Sasha smiles at Tim, and then Jon. 

“Jon,” she says. 

He has a feeling that he can guess what she’s about to say. 

“I have this party that I have to go to this weekend. Would you come with? You _ do _ owe me, after I spent an entire evening with a bunch of full of themselves snobs for you.” 

He looks at her, then at Tim and Martin. Martin looks vaguely embarrassed, Tim shameless. 

“What a coincidence,” he says, “that you’re all suddenly in need of a plus one, all at the same time.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine!” Tim says. “It’ll just need a bit of scheduling, that’s all.” 

He looks entirely too innocent as he says that. A suspicion takes root in Jon’s mind, and he narrows his eyes at him. 

“When will  _ your _ party be, Sasha?” he asks her. 

“Not sure yet,” she says. 

“And you, Tim?” 

“Mm, it’s slipping my mind.” 

“Are you three all going to try and trick me into going to three different parties on the same day so that I have to do that ridiculous television bit where I’m running around and changing outfits? Because I won’t cooperate.” 

Tim looks  _ delighted _ at this. “Oh my god. Can we just do that instead?” 

“No,” Martin says, but the corner of his mouth tugs itself up into an amused smile. 

“Maybe next year,” Sasha suggests. 

“Then why do none of you know when your parties are happening, then?” he asks. He really would like to know what the devil they’re on about. 

“We maaaaybe didn’t take the time to decide on a date yet first,” Tim says. “You see, we had to hurry before Martin got enough time to come up with more reasons not to do it again.” 

“Hey!” Martin says, straightening up, indignant. “I have _ not _ just been _ coming up _ with reasons--”

“So this is all the same party,” he says, connecting the pieces. Then he frowns. “I can’t be the plus one to all three of you at the same engagement.” 

“Why not?” Sasha asks him. “It’s not like there’s some sort of rule against it.” 

“I-- well-- it’s not,” he says, struggling to articulate himself. It’s not-- it’s just not  _ done, _ it’s not what you’re supposed to do. But she sounds so reasonable, so matter of fact. She’s right. There isn’t any rule against it. There’s nothing  _ stopping  _ them. … Except-- “Who else is going to be there?” 

“No one,” Martin says. 

“No one?” 

“None,” Tim says. “Zero, zilch, nada. Just the four of us. Not a company party. You’ve been to too many of those lately, you poor soul. We wouldn’t subject you to more. Nah, this is gonna be a  _ proper _ party. A party with friends, where you can dress however you want.” 

“And you can be rude if you want to,” Sasha says. 

“And you can leave halfway through if you want to,” Martin says. 

“A party of just four people?” 

“It’s like they say,” Tim says confidently. “Three make a crowd, but four make a party.” 

“Oh, that’s good,” Martin mumbles. 

“That’s not the saying,” Jon can’t help but point out. 

Tim waves this off casually. “The original saying is dumb. So, Jon, will you do us the honor of being our plus one?” 

“Or if you like it better, we could be your plus three,” Sasha chimes in. 

He’s never enjoyed parties much. They’re either unbearable, boring, or drag on for just a bit too long. So he’s surprised by the sheer  _ want _ to go that he feels once he thinks about it for even just a moment. To be able to just spend time with the four of them-- he does that every day, doesn’t he? 

Sitting in his office, seperated from them, focused on work. 

He remembers lounging on the couch with Georgie for hours on end, each with their own book or laptop or phone, wearing comfortable clothes and blankets, cuddling the cat and each other, occasionally speaking up to voice some idle thought that they had that they thought the other would like to hear, or that they would just like to share. Nothing else felt as peaceful and perfect as those long, comfortable afternoons spent together where nothing much of note happened. He wants, suddenly and intensely, exactly that. 

He feels his face go hot, and fights to keep an even expression, to not let it show. That’s-- ridiculous. They probably just want to take him to a pub or something like that, have a few drinks. Cuddling on the couch in no one’s idea of what a party is, not even his. 

How would they even all fit on one couch? It would have to be an especially long one. 

“Well?” Martin prompts him, letting him know that he’s thought too hard about this, let himself slip away a bit. 

“Yes,” he says before he can overthink it even more. “Alright. I’ll come.” 

“Good,” Sasha says with satisfaction. Tim gives a whoop, and Martin brightens. Something inside of Jon thrills, as if he’s passed some sort of test. Absolutely ridiculous. 

The party ends up happening the next Saturday. Be there or be square, Tim had said. 

“What should I wear?” he’d asked. 

“Whatever you want,” Sasha had said. “That’s sort of the point.” 

Which is a nice sentiment, but it doesn’t particularly help him. He has favorite outfits. An old band t-shirt stolen from Georgie, too large for him, the logo so faded it’s almost illegible, worn threadbare and soft. A flannel shirt that is perfectly comfortable, given as a gift years ago. And a skirt, a dark cotton ankle length thing. He doesn’t wear any of those things out of his flat, ever. They’re… private. Not part of his _ image.  _ He can’t wear those. 

He does have that new suit. He did buy it for parties, but he gets the feeling that if he wears it he’ll show up mortifyingly overdressed. And the last time he showed up to something in just the clothes he’d worn to work, it had turned out to be the wrong thing to do. 

… He is just supposed to wear whatever he wants. If that turns out to not be the case, then that’s not his fault. He  _ asked.  _

He goes to the address he was given. Apparently, they’ll all meet there and go to a pub or some such together. On his way, he tries not to pay any attention to the persistent thoughts and half imaginings that have been popping up into his head for the last week now, ever since he was demanded to choose which of his assistants he liked best and hadn’t been able to do it. When he’d noticed that there was a strange urge to kiss and be kissed curling in his chest, and he hadn’t known who was making it happen. 

Sleeping in for the morning in a soft bed, warmed by another body, content to lie there for hours with Tim. Making breakfast with Martin, listening to him hum a tune as he worked. Arguing over what to watch on television with Sasha, the argument more entertaining than any movie they might pick. The sorts of things he’d treasured from his last serious relationship, his favorite little moments, now with _ them _ in it. 

He tries not to think about it. He really tries. Just like how he tries every time he goes into work or home on the underground, how he tries when he’s trying to fall asleep for the night, how he tries when he’s  _ supposed _ to be focused on  _ work _ but then he finds himself having just blankly stared at the wall for the last five minutes, hearing the muffled sound of Tim’s laughter past his door. He tries not to think about it, because the _ implications--  _ what exactly is he supposed to  _ do  _ with this impossible situation-- 

He tries not to think about it. 

_ “Surprise!” _ three voices ring out, once Sasha lets him into her flat and leads him into her living room. He physically recoils from it. Tim bursts out into laughter, Sasha and Martin following after, only Martin deigning to sheepishly try and cover up his smile up with a hand. 

“Good _ lord,” _ he swears. 

“Every time,” Tim says. “Really, you should’ve learned something from the  _ last _ time we did this.” 

The last time they’d done this. There’s a cake on the coffee table, the frosting spelling ‘have a cranky birthday’, with a pair of novelty candles pointedly spelling out his real age lit on top. No one is wearing shoes or coats, no one looks like they’re prepared to leave the flat for some drinks somewhere else. Martin is wearing a jumper with a far louder floral print on it that he tends to wear to work. Sasha is wearing an oversized hoodie that looks like it must have been stolen from someone else. Tim is wearing an atrocious Hawaii print shirt with the first three buttons popped. 

“You _ tricked  _ me,” he realizes. 

“You gave us no choice,” Sasha says. “We already surprised you in your office for your last birthday, you would’ve seen that coming.” 

“This is a ridiculously elaborate scheme.” 

“It’s a scheme that’s just the right amount of elaborate,” she argues. 

“You really have been going to way too many company parties,” Martin says. “So we, um, we thought that maybe it would be nice if we had the party outside of the Magnus Institute. We’re-- we’re close enough for that, aren’t we?” 

The last half of his sentence tilts upwards in octave uncertainly, and his face scrunches up a bit afterwards like he wishes he could take the words back, like he’d never asked it. The urge to reassure him immediately that yes, they _ are _ close enough to celebrate their birthdays outside of the workspace, outside of work hours comes over him immediately. 

“We are,” he says, and the way Martin lights up at that is both gratifying and deeply embarrassing, for some reason. 

“Also,” Tim says, “this way, we won’t have to share cake if anyone  _ happens _ to pop in.” 

Jon remembers Elias, and can’t help a snort at that. 

“Well,” Jon says, and he can feel himself soften in a distant, helpless sort of way, as if this is something that he has no power over, no way to stop. “Thank you. It-- this is, ah, very-- very nice.” 

Sasha, Tim, and Martin all just smile at him for a moment, and he is helpless to do anything but smile back at them. It’s strangely overwhelming somehow, the happiness and attention of all three of them directed at him at once. 

He thinks about lying in a warm bed long into the morning, squeezed in snug and limbs tangled with three other bodies. Making breakfast in a kitchen crammed with bodies, listening to all three of them chattering on. Trying to get through the impossible task of finding something all four of them would like to watch, and enjoying it. 

He blinks rapidly. That-- it shouldn’t work. It’s too many people, he doesn’t _ like _ too many people. He doesn’t like crowds, being overwhelmed and exhausted. But it doesn’t feel like that with them. Being with them doesn’t feel like being with people at all, because being with people is always, in some way, draining, be it good or bad company. But being with the three of them feels as peaceful and undemanding as being with no one at all, except he isn’t alone. He isn’t alone at all. 

His heart is beating loudly in his chest. He swallows dryly. 

“You-- you should blow out the candles,” Martin breaks the silence. “Before they start melting.” 

“No fire hazards in my apartment,” Sasha agrees. 

“Make a wish!” Tim cheers. 

“Yes, yes, alright,” he says, affecting a beleaguered, badgered tone of voice. Poor him, having surprise birthday parties thrown for him, being made to blow out candles on a cake. It’s easier than openly admitting that some part of him _ likes _ this. He’d never really celebrated his birthday as a child. He hadn’t even remembered that it was today. It doesn’t feel like he should care about it, considering all of that. But they care  _ for _ him. 

He bends down to blow out the candles. Almost compulsively, the unasked for thoughts that he’s been having lately pop back up into his mind as he does so. He straightens up, feeling his face go hot. 

“What did you wish for?” Tim asks him. 

“That’s none of your business,” he says primly, because he can’t come up with a lie quickly enough. Tim makes an exaggerated noise of disappointment. 

“We forgot to sing for him,” Martin says. 

“Oh, damn it,” Sasha says. 

“That’s  _ quite  _ alright,” he assures them. Standing around while everyone looks at him and sings has never been particularly appealing to him anyways. He never knows what to do, where to look. It’s… flustering. 

“Oh, but we have to do  _ something,” _ Tim says, and gives Sasha and Martin a significant look. Sasha grins wolfishly, and Martin starts to go pink in the face. 

“You’ve done more than enough--” he says. 

“Nonsense,” Sasha says. “There’s another birthday celebration we could do.” 

Tim nods wisely. “Birthday kisses.” 

“Birth--  _ excuse me?” _ he asks, coughing a bit. 

“One kiss for every year you’ve been alive,” Tim says cheerfully. “That’s three decades now! Very good, nice round number.” 

“That’s a lot of kisses, though,” Sasha says, in a  _ oh dear me _ sort of voice. 

“We could--” Martin says stiltedly, and then goes even redder once everyone turns to look at him. He takes a deep breath and forges on, his voice high and unsteady with embarrassment. “We could all take turns. Split the burden between us.” 

“What a  _ brilliant  _ idea,” Tim says, delighted. He doesn’t sound surprised in the slightest. Like this was all rehearsed. “It’s perfect, actually. Ten kisses each. Very fair. This way, no one’s gonna get jealous that someone got more kisses.” 

Jon tries to say something, and ends up just making a wheezing noise instead. Martin leans forward, all concern, and gives him a solid part on his back. He clears his throat and tries again. 

“Are you _ joking?” _ he asks. That’s it, this has to be some sort of joke. A joke that he isn’t getting. There’s plenty of jokes that he doesn’t quite understand, doesn’t get why  _ that’s  _ supposed to be funny. 

“No!” Martin hurries to say, Sasha shaking her head next to him. 

“We would never joke about kisses,” Tim says gravely. “Kisses are serious business.” 

Jon gives him a skeptical, unamused frown. He sounds so serious that it has to be sarcasm, it must. It feels like there’s something fluttery trapped in his midsection that got worked up into a tizzy since the first moment Tim said  _ kisses.  _ He can’t stop thinking about it, now. The three of them kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him. Do they know? Do they know what he’s been thinking? Are they making fun of him? They wouldn’t, they’re not  _ cruel--  _ but why else would they be doing something like this--

Sasha reaches forwards and picks up Jon’s hand, and matter of factly presses her lips to his knuckles, holding his gaze unblinkingly as she does so. He inhales sharply. 

“One,” she says, her lips just grazing his knuckles as she speaks. 

They’re not making fun of him. 

“Oh, see?” Tim says, pleased. “We’re not joking. We  _ would _ like to kiss you, actually. About thirty times.” 

“You just-- you just had to go first, didn’t you?” Martin asks Sasha. 

She grins at him unrepentantly. “You snooze, you lose.” 

“I was waiting for him to say that he’s fine with it!” 

“He needed a bit of proof!” 

“I’m fine with it,” Jon says, the words spilling out of him before he can even think it over. The three of them snap to look at him, so very, very keenly. He shivers under the weight of all of their attention. Sasha’s still holding his hand. The patch of skin where she’d pressed a kiss in tingles ever so slightly. “I’m-- it’s okay. Acceptable. For you all to k-- kiss me.” 

A smile spreads slowly over Tim’s face, and Martin leans in like he can’t help it, a look on his face like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. 

“Glad to hear it,” Tim says warmly, and leans in without hesitation to press a kiss to his right cheek. He jumps a bit at it, and when Tim moves away he intensely wishes that he’d come back, that it was still happening. “Two.” 

Martin makes an annoyed noise at that, and makes his way around Sasha to stand in front of Jon. He looks down at him, flush faced, his nervous expression softening as he looks into Jon’s eyes. 

“You sure it’s okay?” he asks softly. 

“Yes,” is all he can bring himself to say. 

And so Martin leans in, and kisses him. His lips are very soft. Very nice. He can faintly taste some sort of tea on his lips, he thinks. Tim wolf whistles off to the side, and Sasha leans in to press her hand against Jon’s back, her body a warm line against his side. 

And he is kissed, and kissed, and kissed. He thinks they probably go over just thirty kisses, because they stop counting fairly quickly. That’s fine. That’s more than fine. 

It’s a perfect party. 


End file.
